


an act of faith against the night

by Eliane



Series: landscapes of war [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Politics, Post War Society, Relationship Study, various discussions about the meaning of history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane
Summary: It’s a clear path, drawing itself in Harry’s mind – where they began, how they ended up here. It’s not hard to convey all the events that led them to this very moment, with all of their twists and turns, not when Harry has been going through them again and again every night, albeit searching for something else.

  “Did you know?” When Harry replies, it’s a question, not an answer. “Did you know, that it would end like this?”
[Harry and Louis had never imagined that, when they would finally go back to New York, it would be as spies.]***sequel to a prayer for which no words exist





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> So here we are. This was supposed to be a short timestamp and well. I apparently had more to say. 
> 
> First of all, I want to thank [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) who managed to keep me sane during the six months it took me to write this. Thank you also for not letting me die at the Uffizzi.  
> Then thank you so much to sunshineandlollipopsthings and to dracoroxy for betaing this. You were both incredibly lovely! 
> 
> A/N : This work has a meta dimension to it (although, to be fair, some things became meta after I wrote them). It’s not the only dimension of this story and I hope it’s not gratuitous and that it does serve a purpose within the story but if that’s not your thing, fair warning.
> 
> That said this is, of course, a work of fiction. It’s in no way intended to reflect any kind of reality or my views on current political situations or on the real people the characters of this story are based on. As usual, it’s just me toying with an idea (or in this case three or four) and seeing how far I can go with it.
> 
> This story also deals with two people who have been through traumatic events and, although there’s nothing too explicit described, it does allude to the consequences those events had on the characters.
> 
> The title of the story comes from the poem “You are Jeff” by Richard Siken, without whom I probably wouldn’t have written any of this. The title of the series is a play on another Siken quote from the poem “Landscape with several small fires.”
> 
> Fun anecdote: while googling the title I discovered that the American historian Charles A. Beard had written an essay called “Written history as an act of faith” which you can read here. It’s an interesting read if, of course, a bit outdated but I love random intertextuality. If you’re interested in those subjects I’d also suggest reading one of Siken’s editorials entitled [ _Black Telephone_ ](http://sporkpress.com/1_3/pieces/Editor.htm).
> 
> And finally enjoy!

Prologue.

“The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.”

Richard Siken, “The language of the birds”, in  _War of the foxes_.

_So you went to war._

_When people ask you about it, that’s what you tell them. That’s your story now, all neatly ordered and ready to be delivered in a speech that, if not rehearsed, has been repeated so many times you’re not sure this story belongs to you anymore. Maybe it never did._

_The story more or less goes like this – I went to war, I fought, I tried being brave (I was mostly afraid), I met someone, I didn’t die, I came back. They all eat it up, eager to know what you went through, thirsty for the juicy details – the blood, the screams, the heroic ending. You know that, so that’s what you give them. You don’t have to tell the whole truth for it to appear to be true. You don’t have to tell them the darkest moments for people to think that they got them._

_They’re a work of balance, stories. A delicately constructed equilibrium. A tight rope on which you dance and dance and dance, careful not to fall._

_So you say_ I went to war _and you smile while doing so. People sometimes wonder – you know – how you could smile when you’re talking about war. You wish you could tell them smiling is the easy part but that’s one of those things you can’t put into your story. You see something falter in their eye, something like doubt, something like wonder._

_You keep on smiling._

_What would happen if you stopped smiling, if you stopped dancing – oh so carefully – on your tight rope: you would tell them that they’re wrong. The story doesn’t stop when you come back from war alive. It goes on._

_People get events wrong. They say –_ this is why it happened _and they say_ – so this is why it must have happened _and they say_ – so this is why it couldn’t have happened in any other way.

_You know better. You know that it’s what happens after that truly matters. You know that events are not to be measured by what caused them but by the consequences they had._

_You know that without consequences events just fade into obscurity._

_So you smile and say – I went to war._

*** 

The first thing Louis notices when they arrive in New York is how loud it is.

They step out of the car, right in front of the hotel they’ll be staying at, and while Harry thanks the driver who came to fetch them from the airport, Louis closes his eyes and takes in the city. It’s a rush of noise, almost deafening.

This isn’t his city, the one he had learned to love for a year. New York, to him, had always been silent. It was him trying to get back to the penthouse late at night, listening for the presence of someone else or, later, him coming back to the Factory after a mission, rushing through the deserted streets, alone or with Len next to him. Silence meant safety.

Harry comes to stand next to him and Louis opens his eyes, trying to push the overwhelming memories out of his mind. He catches Harry’s gaze and Harry nods in understanding.

“Come on,” Harry murmurs, “let’s get settled. We have a busy night ahead of us.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Louis answers in the same quiet tone.

He stays there, on the pavement, watching Harry enter the hotel, before closing his eyes again. Something he didn’t know existed, something he wouldn’t even know how to describe flutters inside of him. He’d like to believe it’s relief.

 _So_ , he thinks. _It looks like the war is really over then._

***

When Louis enters their hotel room, he finds Harry putting their clothes away in a nondescript wardrobe, the kind that always comes with these generic rooms. At least they didn’t have to pay for it. Amidst the dull greys and browns of the décor, Harry seems almost vibrant with life, a technicoloured dream. 

“What are you doing?” Louis asks, his gaze following Harry’s precise gestures. “We’re only staying for two nights.”

“I know. I just… wanted to occupy myself,” Harry answers.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” he sighs, sitting down on the bed. “It’s just that everything is so disconcerting, I guess. The city feels like it used to before everything happened. And I should be glad that it’s like this, that it’s alive again, but it’s just…”

“Wrong?”

“Yeah.”

There’s something inside Louis’ chest, something that keeps taking more and more space. It’s not relief. Harry’s gaze is fixed on the carpet, seemingly as lost as Louis is. No, it’s not relief.  He wonders if it’s regret.

“So, what’s the program then?” he asks, trying to lift the heaviness of their current mood. He doesn’t need to be told what the program is, has reread the invitation countless of times trying to make sense of what was happening. Trying to wrap his mind around the idea that they were coming back.  Still, Harry is kind enough to indulge him.

“Dinner with the boys tonight. Then tomorrow, the Parade and the Ceremony, and finally, the dinner party back at the hotel. We should get ready for dinner if we don’t want to be late,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“Right,” Louis says. “I’m going to take a shower and change clothes. Wanna join me?”

“No, I’m good,” Harry answers. “I’ll just freshen up when you’re done.”

Louis smiles at him and starts moving towards the bathroom when he hears Harry ask after him,

“Lou?”

“What is it, love?”

“Can you please come here, for a minute?”

He’s standing in the middle of the room, arms spread open as if waiting for Louis to settle in between them. There’s something fragile in the way he holds himself, an uncertainty Louis doesn’t quite know what to make of.  So he just takes a few steps forward, letting Harry’s arms close around him while he breathes Harry in.

“We can do this,” Harry whispers in the crook of his neck.

“I love you,” Louis whispers back to him. It’s more of an answer than it probably should be.

“It’s just one day, yes?”

“Just one day.”

***

The dinner hall is dimly lit when they enter it, jazzy music playing in the background. The room is bigger and posher than what they would have chosen for themselves, but it makes sense considering they’ve been invited as war heroes. It couldn’t be further from what Louis thinks his role during the war was, but it doesn’t matter. History belongs to the winners.

Louis rests his hand against the small of Harry’s back as they follow the hostess to their table. All his boys are already there, sitting in a circle with two empty spots between Niall and Zayn, and Louis lets out a shaky breath. He knows this. He knows what it’s like to sit down with these people, on cushioned chairs or on the ground, in a penthouse in Brooklyn or in his and Harry’s garden in London. He can do this.

Niall is the first one to spot them. He almost jumps out of his seat in an attempt to hug them both.

“Hey,” Louis laughs at his welcome.

“Hey,” Niall answers. “Nice to see that you managed to get here. We were starting to wonder.”

“Why wouldn’t we get here?” Harry asks, nonplussed.

Niall doesn’t answer. His smile tightens, but he shrugs it off, and when Louis looks past him to rest his eyes on Zayn, he notices that his expression has just become a bit sombre too. Louis makes a mental note to ask him what this is all about later, in private. For now he sits down, Harry next to him, and lets the conversation carry on without him.

It’s been awhile since they’ve all been in the same place together, but it doesn’t take long for them to fall back into their usual dynamic. They talk about what they’ve been doing, and how good the food is, and they leave the heavier topics for later, when they’re drunker and looser. Still, it doesn’t escape Louis how Niall avoids mentioning any recent trip back to Ireland, or any trips back to Britain, or how Zayn doesn’t say anything about his family when they breach the topic.

“My mum and dad are here,” Liam says, face brightening with joy at their mention, “but you two came alone, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “We didn’t want this to be some kind of big family gathering. Just a quick trip, you know…”

But Liam doesn’t. In many ways, they are alike, Louis and Liam. The same things get to them and they both need to do right by them, to make the world a little fairer. Except, where Louis is ready to break the rules – again and again – Liam follows them. Even now, it’s obvious that Liam is happy to be there. Or maybe not happy, but proud to be recognized and celebrated for what they accomplished all those years ago. Louis wishes he could share this state of mind.

“Wanna go for a smoke?” he asks Zayn, when the conversation begins to quiet.

“Yeah, sure,” Zayn answers easily, not questioning Louis further. “Be right back, boys” he says, getting out of his seat. Louis squeezes Harry’s arm to let him know everything is fine, a small reassurance before any questions are asked. Harry nods back in understanding and Louis follows Zayn through the back door of the restaurant.

Outside, the city is as loud as it was when they arrived, and bright lights that weren’t there during the day are glowing from the buildings around them. Everything seems foreign except for the way the air smells, like spring, like the promise of warmer and better days.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Zayn asks and Louis lets out a small laugh.

“It is, yeah.”

“So, what did you wanna talk about?”

“The thing Niall said, about us not getting there… What was that about?”

“I had a presentiment it would be about that,” Zayn sighs, eyes fixed on his cigarette. “Things are… Things aren’t good here, Lou.”

“What?” Louis exclaims. “What do you mean?”

“I almost didn’t make it here. There was a whole lot of complications. They said that I had to prove that I’d been part of the Rebellion and was invited for a reason, as if the whole world didn't know that it was the five of us,” he scoffs. “They asked me for paper after paper, proof after proof. Just so I could get into the fucking country.”

“And you don’t believe it was a mistake?”

“A mistake?” Zayn laughs. “No, Lou it wasn’t a mistake. The people in power right now… They don’t want me there, simple as that. If they could have, they would have erased the part I played in our group and in the Rebellion. They wouldn’t have me at the Ceremony tomorrow.”

“But why?”

Zayn laughs again and it’s harsher this time. “You haven’t been following what’s been happening here since the Rebuilding started, have you? No, don’t answer that, I know you’ve been busy with the conferences and the book. I guess things seem… fine if you don’t bother taking a second look at them. Have you checked out the people who are supposed to give the Speeches tomorrow?”

“I…no. Just skimmed through that part of the program I guess. More concerned about the whole coming back thing.”

“Take a look at it, will you? There are names on this program that shouldn’t be there. Those people should be in jail.”

“I don’t understand,” Louis admits.

“Just take a look at it,” Zayn repeats. “It’ll be more effective than anything I could tell you. I’m gonna head back now, all right? I’ll see you later Lou,” he adds to soften the blow.

Louis waits for Zayn to go back inside before taking out his phone and opening the Ceremony program. What has he missed? They’ve been busy, him and Harry, it’s true. When the news broke a year ago that the war had come to an end and the Government had been overthrown by an alliance of rebel groups, they had celebrated, of course. The five of them together and him and Harry alone. They had held each other tight, thinking of how they had helped to bring about the end. That they hadn’t fought for nothing. (Hadn’t been bruised and battered, hadn’t bled for nothing.) But they hadn’t followed what had happened after, too preoccupied with the course of their life in London. Until, one day, they received an invitation to the one-year anniversary of the end of the war.

Not paying attention has been a mistake. Louis gets it straight away, looking at the names written at the bottom of the program. Simon’s he can understand even though he has always been wary of the man. After all, he used to be the leader of one of the main rebel groups. But there are others. Others that shouldn’t be there, as Zayn had said.

Dread settles in Louis’ bones, the kind he thought he had forgotten yet recognizes for what it is.

He needs to talk to Harry. 

***

“I’m not sure there’s anything we can do, Lou,” Harry says, once Louis is done recounting his conversation with Zayn and his discovery. They’re back in their hotel room, alone, and his tone is gentle, almost delicate, as if he knows that one wrong word could upset the precarious balance of Louis’ current state of mind. “We should just go through with it and go back home.”

“I know. I just don’t like it,” Louis answers. He’s feeling jittery. The bareness of the room is almost suffocating now, and the sense of foreignness that has been plaguing him since they arrived is only amplifying.

“Can we… Can we go out for a walk, please?” he asks, voice small and uneven. “I need to…”

“Yes, sure,” Harry answers without hesitation and Louis could cry in relief. He needs to get out of this room, out of this hotel. He needs to stop feeling like a stranger in a city he once knew better than London, where every street was his to love and fight for.

They grab their coats and leave the room, Harry directing them downstairs toward a back entrance.

“Not sure we’re allowed to go out without an escort,” he shrugs in explanation.

Louis doesn’t answer but smiles a little, lighter already. Sneaking out of buildings together is something familiar, something they do. Or used to, at least. There’s reassurance in this small act of defiance and it helps Louis breathe easier. The noises that unsettled him so much earlier are almost reduced to nothing this late in the night, and most of the lights have been turned off. Something like recognition washes over him. This is New York.      

They walk in silence, close to each other, hands brushing but not actually touching. A sense of possibility lingers in the small distance between their hands, although it’s hard to tell if it’s closure or a new beginning Louis is seeking. Harry is the one to breach the silence,

“We’re close to where we first met.”

“I know,” Louis smiles.

“I dream about it sometimes,” Harry says, as if sharing a secret.

“Do you? You never told me that.”

“It’s a boring dream. I meet you and we run away from an explosion.”

“Doesn’t sound boring to me,” Louis laughs.

“I guess it’s the part that comes before, that’s boring. The part before I meet you.” Harry’s voice has almost quieted to a whisper.

“What happens in that part?”

“Nothing. Nothing happens except for this feeling of fear and of…”

“Suffocation?”

“Yes, suffocation.”

They both stop at the same time in front of a building.

“And look where we are now,” Louis says.

“We were always gonna come back here, weren’t we?”

“Maybe, yeah. Come on, then,” Louis says, offering Harry his hand. Harry smiles at him, face brighter than it’s been all night and takes it. “Let’s go inside.”

“What if there’s someone in there?” Harry asks.

“There won’t be.”

***

The flat is silent when they enter it and, as Louis predicted, deserted. Everything is still as they left it, though covered by years’ worth of dust. It’s both familiar and foreign. It’s the same table standing in the middle of the living room – devoid of any clutter – the same couch, the same curtains casting shadows on the floor. They move on to what used to be their bedroom, finding it in a similar unchanged state. Louis doesn’t know if he’s relieved or unsettled that so little seems to have changed in the years they spent away. 

“Can we… Can we sit on the bed?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s just move the covers away. Don’t want to sit on so much dust.”

“How did you know no one would be here?”

“Liam told me a while ago that the government never stopped renting the place. In case another group needed to come back or someone just forgot about it I don’t know, but I knew it was still here.”

“Almost like it’s been waiting for us,” Harry muses. “Is it strange,” he adds, “that I associate this flat with some of my happiest memories?”

They’re both sitting on the bed, their backs against the wall. Louis can barely see Harry in the dark of the room but he knows what his face must look like, expression caught between guilt and something like regret. He also knows that’s not what Harry truly wants to ask.

“What do you mean?” he inquires, as careful with his tone as Harry was earlier, before they left the hotel. They’ve been dancing around this all day, this thing that needs to be said, yet they don’t quite know how to put into words.

“The thing is,” Harry exhales ( _and here it is_ ), “the thing is, I miss it sometimes.”

“I know,” Louis answers – and he does. How could he not? There are moments when he catches Harry staring at nothing, when his hand previously gentle and tender on Louis’ thigh hardens, when he goes to sleep without saying a thing – nothing but a kiss goodnight, closed eyes and laboured breaths. It’s easy to recognise those signs when Louis has to go through them too.

There are other nights. Nights during which Harry doesn’t ask but Louis knows he wants Louis to speak. He doesn’t say – _tell me a story about war_ , but it’s almost the same thing when he squeezes Louis’ hand the way he used to during the war. Louis has become quite good at telling stories.

“Is it mad?” Harry asks.

“I think,” Louis laughs quietly, “that it would be wonderful if you could only miss the good parts of your life. The ones that used to make you so happy it sometimes felt like you would explode. But that’s not how people work, is it?” He sighs, shifting his legs so that they entwine with Harry’s, a steady point grounding them both. “Sometimes people miss what used to make them unhappy. What used to break them. I think it’s because you just kinda forget how hard it was, but also because sometimes, what you remember the most about those times, is the knowledge that something better would come after. That as hard as it was, there was hope for something more.”

“Is it mad?” Harry asks again, unrelenting.

“It’s not mad to miss that feeling. That sense of possibility. I don’t think so, no. It’s very human, Haz.”

“But?”

Louis shrugs. “There’s no but. I don’t think there’s anything to do but recognise it for what it is, and then let it go.”

“Can you do that? Let go of this feeling?”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been trying to do all this time?”

“I guess so.”  

“Do you remember the night before my first mission at the Factory?”

“Yeah, of course I do.”

“I asked you then,” there’s a lump in Louis’ throat he chooses to ignore, “if we were losing ourselves in the war. And you told me – you told me that we would learn how to be at peace again. And then…”

“Yes,” Harry murmurs and he must be picturing the scene as vividly as Louis is, the both of them in their tiny bunk bed, the heavy breathing of the other fighters surrounding them, the two of them lost in a world that they had created for themselves, that they kept building, day after day, night after night.

“You said it was fine if I didn’t remember how to be myself, because you would be there to make me remember.” Louis smiles, and it’s kind of sad and nostalgic. “The thing is, I miss it too. But you did. You do. Make me remember, I mean.”

“Lou,” Harry whispers and Louis looks at him. They’re very close. Harry’s eyes are bright, maybe a bit wet, and there’s something shimmering in them, something akin to thankfulness. “Come here please,” he adds. So Louis closes the few inches that separate them, straddling Harry’s lap. Harry cups Louis’ head between his hands and brings their foreheads together. They stay like this, for a few breathless moments, before Harry kisses him.

A feeling of quiet desperation unfurls in his chest when Harry’s lips touch his. Their kiss is soft and intimate, yet somehow tentative, like they’re not sure it’s something they’re allowed to do. Strangely enough, it’s the first time they’ve kissed in this room, where they spent so many nights talking, entangled in each other, as close as two people could ever hope to be.

 _I know you_ , Louis thinks, deepening the kiss. _I know you and I love everything I know about you. The way you take your tea. The pictures you take of me when you think I’m not aware. The way your eyelids flutter when you’re sleepy but too anxious to fall asleep. How you get mad when I forget to do the laundry. How you can never stay mad for long because you know I don’t mean to. How, when you think I’m asleep, you draw patterns on my skin. How sometimes they mean something and sometimes they don’t. How you love me._

Louis breaks the kiss and opens his eyes to look at Harry. His eyes are still closed, his breaths ragged. “I know you,” Louis repeats out loud against Harry’s lips, “and I remember you. As you were then, and as you are now.”

“How do you remember me?”

“Like the brightest thing I’d ever seen. Like an anchor,” he says, thumb caressing the tattoo on Harry’s wrist, “like the happy ending to a story I didn’t know I was writing yet.”

“Being back here,” Harry murmurs, “it’s fucking with us, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Louis answers because he doesn’t know how to articulate what’s going on within him. Maybe it was inevitable that they should come back to this place and confront what has been defining their lives for so long. 

He gets out of Harry’s lap and rearranges their bodies so that they’re lying on the bed, face to face. Here, on this bare bed, in a room that hasn’t been inhabited for years, he is more at peace than he ever was in their hotel room. The silence that surrounds them is familiar and comforting, and he lets Harry’s breathing lull him to sleep.  

***

Louis opens his eyes to the first light of dawn breaking through the sky and illuminating the bedroom. He’s had this dream before; it’s as familiar to him as breathing. He’s had it when they were sleeping, tucked in a tiny bunk bed in the Factory and later, in London. It’s a dream of waking up to the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen and to the distant whisper of voices in the living room, planning – always planning – their next move. It’s a dream of something resembling happiness now that he doesn’t have to live through those days anymore.

He blinks, once, twice and the dreamy atmosphere evaporates as Harry’s silhouette comes into focus. He’s leaning against the window, head bent, loose strands of hair hiding his face. It’s nothing Louis hasn’t seen a hundred times before, yet, in this place that holds so many memories, there’s something almost miraculous about it. It’s a fragile moment, one that will disappear as soon as Harry realises that he’s awake, so he keeps his breathing even in hope that it’ll last a little longer.

 _I know you_ , Louis thinks again. _I know you and I remember you. Do you remember me?_

“You’re awake,” Harry says, breaking Louis’ train of thought.

“Yes,” he says. “Have you been up for a long time?”

Harry shrugs in response as if he doesn’t know the answer himself. “We should go back to the hotel,” he says, “we need to get ready for the Parade.”

“Yes,” Louis agrees while getting up. “Let’s go.”

He closes the door of the flat behind them. Whatever they might have hoped to find here, between the remnants of their previous life, whatever sense of closure or peace they might have fantasised about, it wasn’t there.

One more day. Just one more day and they’re going back to London.

***

The Parade passes in a blur. The sun is hot, hotter than it ought to be on an April day, making Louis sweat through his meticulously chosen clothes. They all decided to wear similar outfits, not coordinating as such but making sure people could see that they belonged together, that they had fought this war side by side, the five of them.

Playing the part of the war hero doesn’t bother Louis as much as it used to. Like everything else, it’s something he has learned to do. He’s had to, in order for his conferences to be successful, and he’ll have to keep on doing it once he’s finished his book and has to promote it.

It’s still something of a lie.

They’ve arrived at where Rockefeller Center used to be, now an empty space filled by thousands of people – some who fought during the war and participated in the Parade, and a crowd that has gathered around them to hear the Speeches. Suddenly, it’s like Louis isn’t part of this anymore, like he’s a spectator waiting for a play to begin. He tries to quench the foreign sensation but the heat and the people around him only amplify it.

“Are you okay?” Harry whispers in his ear and Louis turns his head to look at him. His hair is tied in a bun, not the kind that Louis prefers, hastily done in the morning, but neatly done, without a single strand of hair escaping. He looks calm and collected, almost regal, and so far from the fragile vision of the morning that it’s almost as if Louis is looking at a different person. But then, Harry’s brows furrow a bit and he is Louis’ again, completely and unquestionably Louis’. It helps Louis focus and he’s back in his body, a slight tingle starting at the tips of his fingers, a rush of apprehension and excitement going through his veins. 

“I’m fine,” he whispers back at Harry.  In the distance, he can see people preparing to go on the platform that has been set for the Speeches. The names on the program – names that shouldn’t be there – cross his mind. People who shouldn’t be standing here today, speaking in front of a crowd that they had helped to keep captive in their own city, in their own country for years. That they used to terrorize day after day.

Louis remembers it. He was there.

When the first speaker comes up to stand on the stage and the crowd falls silent, Louis closes his eyes, ready to listen to what will be said.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the one-year anniversary of the end of the war.”

***

The dinner party takes place back at the hotel. It’s a small crowd, compared to the one that was there at the Ceremony, only a few people chosen for the role they played during the war and the elite of the new society that emerged during the Rebuilding. Louis recognises faces he hasn’t seen in a while and lets people he has never talked to congratulate him on his part in the Rebellion. It’s something he’s accustomed to and he knows how to navigate this kind of crowd, how to make small talk, when to smile and when to say goodbye. He doesn’t like it but he can understand the purpose behind it, the necessity of the act they’re all putting on much more than the triumphant earlier Parade. Now, it’s not about being a hero anymore or appearing to be one, it’s about having something those people need. He can either choose to grant it to them or not – his time, his presence, a story to go home with, to bring up during brunch or at dinner parties.  

“Well, hello,” says a voice near him. He’s leaning against one of the high windows of the ballroom, glass of champagne in hand when he turns around to face Len.

“Hello,” he answers with a huge smile. “I wasn’t sure I would see you here.”

“I almost didn’t come,” she shrugs as if it’s no matter. “Didn’t come to the Ceremony though, but I thought I couldn’t pass the opportunity to see my partner. How are you, Lou? You look good.”

“Thank you,” and God it’s the first time since the dinner party has started that he finds himself smiling in a way that isn’t contrived. “So do you. And I’m fine. Today’s been a whirlwind.”

“I can imagine. A lot has changed, hasn’t it?”

“It has, yes. And some things haven’t changed at all, it seems. Speaking of, where’s your other half?”

“Senna? She couldn’t make it,” Len answers, offering Louis the same tight smile that Niall had given him the night before.

“Couldn’t? Or didn’t want to?”

“Well if we’re being precise, I guess I should say that she wasn’t allowed.”

“Why?”

“Because she isn’t white? Because we’re a gay couple? Take your pick, Lou. We’re not quite high society material.”

“But me and Harry…”

“Are a different matter entirely, believe me,” she says in a tone that doesn’t allow any further questioning. There’s something sharp and harsh in the way she’s holding herself that makes Louis remember how much he likes her, how he couldn’t have done this without her.  

“I wanted to thank you,” he begins, “again, I guess. I think. I think now I understand better why you were harsh on me, sometimes.”

“I was harsh on you,” she smiles, “so that you could be kind to yourself.”

“I get that. Thank you.” Silence lingers between them, the both of them lost in their memories before Louis asks cautiously, well-aware that the topic seems almost forbidden, “Is it that bad? What’s happening right now?”

“It’s not what I had envisioned,” Len replies, and if Louis didn’t know her so well he wouldn’t be able to hear the slight quiver in her voice. She seems to brace herself, taking a sip of her champagne, before continuing, “Things went so fast after we won… We didn’t take time to organise anything, you know? We just wanted it to be over, I guess. To start again.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“No it isn’t,” she agrees. “But the Elections were rushed. We just elected those who were there, there was no real choice involved in the process, do you understand what I mean?”

Louis does.  “And there’s no opposition?” he asks, starting to wonder if this is the right place for such a conversation.

Len snorts. “There is, yeah. If you can call all the concurrent factions an opposition.”

 “Factions?”

“That’s what they are. With their own personal police and their rich base of supporters. Some are better than others, I guess, but…” She pauses before stating, in her usual blunt manner, “This isn’t how you rebuild a society, no matter that they’re choosing to call it the Rebuilding.”

Louis nods, hundreds of questions swirling in his mind. Now is not the time, though, and if the situation is even half as bad as Len makes it seem to be, they shouldn’t have talked about it as much as they already did in public. So when Louis starts speaking again, it’s to ask her about how she’s doing and what her current projects are. She tells him about the tattoo parlour Senna opened a few months ago and, in return, he speaks about his book.

They don’t talk about the topics of the war and the current political climate again. Louis isn’t sure what’s happening, but something is wrong. It’s not just about the people who managed to survive the war and still have a life even though they should have been judged and imprisoned, it’s about the way Zayn had said _they didn’t want me there_ and how Len had answered _she wasn’t allowed_ to his enquiry about Senna, and Louis can’t very well dismiss those things. 

It’s late when Louis bids Len goodbye, the party beginning to dwindle. He starts walking towards Harry who stands in a corner of the ballroom, talking to someone Louis has never seen in person but identifies immediately.

“Hi love,” he says, pecking Harry’s cheek, his hand coming to rest on the small of Harry’s back. “Hello,” he adds, tilting his head to face Ben Winston.

“Hello,” Winston replies, offering his hand. Louis shakes it briefly. “Ben Winston. I don’t believe we’ve met before?”

“Louis Tomlinson. And no, we haven’t.”

“Although I’ve heard a lot about you. And not just from Harry here.”

“Ah,” Louis answers. “I’ve heard about you too.”

“Nothing bad I hope?” Winston asks, eyes twinkling. There’s no way he isn’t aware of the implications of what he’s saying and, well. No wonder he’s still standing.

“Your work throughout the years has certainly been praised,” he shrugs.

“Beautiful speech earlier, wasn’t it? All this talk about unity and coming together now that the war has ended!”

“You would know better than us, I guess,” Louis says. “We weren’t there for the Rebuilding.”

“True, true,” his tone is dry – almost mocking. For a moment it seems to be the end of it and Louis is ready to make their excuses, when Winston starts speaking again, “You two make a beautiful couple, you know?”

“Thank you,” Harry answers, cautious and wondering, before Louis has the time to say anything. It’s now obvious where all of this is going and Louis braces himself for what’s coming next.

“A shame that you weren’t there for the Rebuilding when you gave so much to the Rebellion. It’s always nice to see that your sacrifices haven’t been meaningless, isn’t it?”

“We’ve been doing a lot from London,” Louis intervenes.

“Ah yes. You give, ah, conferences is that right? About your role in the Rebellion? And our dear Harry has been educating London’s art sphere with his photographs, I’ve heard all about that too. A noble thing, for sure.” He adds, in a disdainful tone, “You’re proper celebrities now.” 

There’s something raw that’s boiling under Louis’ skin, in his veins. Something akin to the feeling you get when what’s happening to you is so unfair you want to scream but you can’t and have to hold it in. 

“We have New Elections coming soon, did you know?” Winston asks, although nothing in his tone suggests that he’s asking an actual question.

“We do, yes,” Louis answers. There’s no way he can let Winston know of their ignorance of what’s happening here.

“Your story it’s… inspiring to say the least. Two beautiful young men, finding each other in the middle of one of the biggest crises in history, fighting for a country that isn’t theirs. It _would_ inspire people to vote for those you chose to support, should you ever intend to voice such a thing publicly. God knows our current Government needs all the support it can get,” he adds with a toothy grin. “There are so many people ready to jump sides already, when the Rebuilding effort isn’t anywhere near being over.”

“And what would such a support entail?” Louis asks. A sick feeling is starting to tighten his throat, yet they have no other choice but to see this conversation to its end.

“Oh, not much. A few public declarations. Maybe coming back to New York during the last months before the New Elections to, ah, help present a united front. To remind those who seem to have forgotten how dire things were when the previous Government was in place. We wouldn’t want a repeat of that, now would we?”

“We wouldn’t,” Louis agrees, trying to stay calm. “We’d have to think about it, though. We _do_ have commitments in England.”

“Please do,” Winston answers, like someone who has already won. “Here’s my card, so you know how to contact me.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, taking the card in his hand. “Now if you would excuse us, it’s been a long day and we’re both tired.”

“Of course,” Winston replies. “Just one more thing before you go,” he adds before turning to focus on Louis. “I made a similar offer to Harry once, as you might know. The fact that he’s here today and that I’m able to make the both of you a new offer is lucky of you, as I’m sure you understand. Incredibly lucky. But luck is a fleeting thing. Try not running out of it, yes?”

“We understand, yes,” Louis says. The threat couldn’t be clearer. “We’ll be in touch.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Winston says before disappearing into the crowd, leaving them standing alone in the middle of the ballroom.

“That was…” Harry begins.

“Yes,” Louis interrupts. He doesn’t want to talk about it here, where anyone could hear them. “Yes, I know. Let’s… Let’s go back to our room, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry exhales. “Let’s say our goodbyes and then we can go.”

***

They find each other again half an hour later in front of the ballroom’s entrance.

“Come on, Haz,” Louis says, taking Harry’s hand in his. It’s shaking, Harry’s palm sweaty, betraying his nerves under his seemingly unfazed exterior and Louis decides that their room is too far away for what they need right now. He leads them further down the corridor and tries opening a random door, hoping it’ll be unlocked. It is and they enter what seems to be a conference room. Louis closes the door behind them, letting go of Harry’s hand as Harry sags against the nearest wall. Louis sits down next to him, their knees and shoulders brushing.

“This was…” Harry starts but doesn’t finish, lost for words.

“He can’t make us, Haz. I know what he implied but he can’t make us.”

“I was talking with Simon before he arrived,” Harry says. “Simon was the one to introduce us like they were old friends.” He laughs. “There’s something very wrong going on here, Lou.”

“I know,” Louis answers. “But this doesn’t mean that we have to accept. They have no hold on us. Whatever is happening here, right now, we don’t have to be a part of it.”

“Don’t we?”

Louis knows what he’s asking and there’s no simple answer to that.

“Not if we don’t want to,” he answers, because they still have that. They still have a choice.

“Or,” says a voice, coming from the entrance of the room, “you could listen to me. I may have a counteroffer for you.”

Louis looks up to see two silhouettes standing in the entryway.   

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Irving Azoff,” the man who spoke answers. “And this is my son, Jeff. I’ve heard a lot about you two.”

“So has everyone, apparently,” Harry murmurs.

“Well?” Irving says, smiling in an indulgent manner. “Do you want to hear what I have to say?”

Louis looks back at Harry who shrugs in defeat.

“Sure,” Louis answers. “Why not?”

*** 

The walk back to their room is quiet; the conversation that awaits them one of those that can only be held in bed, under the pretence of being shielded from the world by the silence of the night and the protection of their blankets. There’s something bright burning through Louis’ veins, something that’s not exhilaration yet is very close to it.

 _So, here we are again_.

“Are we going to accept?” Harry wonders.

They’re both curled on their side, facing each other but not touching. Yet the intimacy between them is almost suffocating.

“Winston’s offer? I don’t think so, no,” Louis replies, although that’s not what Harry was asking.

“What about the other one, then?”

The Azoffs’ offer. And there it is, this feeling again. As if a future that they didn’t know existed a mere minutes ago has opened in front of them. As if something they didn’t know was possible is now waiting for them _. Let it not be said_ , Irving had told them, _that we weren’t better than those we overthrew_. 

“What do you think of it?”

“I think,” Harry whispers, “that you want to do it.”

“What about you?”

Harry lets out a breath and turns to rest on his back. He’s not looking at Louis anymore, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if trying to decipher some kind of answer in the shadows covering it. “I told you I missed it, didn’t I? But I don’t think… I don’t think we should do it because we miss it. What they’re asking from us, it’s big you know?”

“I know.”

“To everybody else it would seem like we did accept Winston’s offer. Our families, the boys… They would think that we don’t care about what those people did during the war, that we agree with them.”

“It wouldn’t be forever, though.”

“That’s true. I guess what I’m saying, is that we would be alone in this. And we would have to lie, to everybody. Your book would have to wait and our…our plans, for the future. They would have to wait too.”

“I want to do it,” Louis admits. He doesn’t feel lighter now that he has said it, wasn’t even sure of what he was going to say until the words left his mouth. “But you’re right, missing it isn’t enough. It’s more than that. It’s what Irving said, you know? I can’t… I don’t want to think that we did all this, all those years ago, that we went through all of this just to let go of it now. To let those people keep the power when most of them should be behind bars. I don’t. I don’t want to think that what we did was meaningless, in the end.”

_Let it not be said, let it not be said, let it not be said._

Harry laughs but Louis can see that his eyelashes are wet with unshed tears.

“Haz, hey, no. If you don’t want to do it, if you think we’ve done enough, we don’t have to.”

“There’s this French play,” Harry starts and oh, they’re doing this then. Louis closes his eyes and lets Harry’s voice tell him about the story. “It’s about 16th century Florence. At the time, it’s ruled by a tyrant, Alessandro de Medici. And there’s his cousin, Lorenzino, who is very young and wants to do this big political gesture by getting the city rid of its tyrant. He wants it to be free. So he goes there and befriends his cousin, trying to get close to him so he can kill him. And to get close to him he has to act like him, to corrupt himself.”

“It sounds like a sad story.”

“It is. Because, by trying to save the city, Lorenzino loses himself. He becomes what he hated.”

“So, what happens?”

“He kills Alessandro. The thing is, Lorenzino knows he can’t be saved. He also knows now that killing Alessandro won’t save the city like he once thought it would. Florence is too corrupted to be saved by the death of one man. But he still does it, because it’s the only thing that makes sense to him, you know? The only thing he can do so that his sacrifices won’t have been meaningless.” 

“Is this something you’re afraid of?”

Harry doesn’t answer Louis’ question. Instead, he says, “When we, ah. When we met, Liam asked me why you shouldn’t have me spy on the Government. Do you remember that?”

“I do.”

“I couldn’t do it then. But I think I can do it now.”

Louis stays silent. It’s the only thing he can offer Harry, right now.

“If we decide to do this,” Harry continues, as if he’s not just admitted that the war took such a toll on him that he’s now able to do something that would have been impossible before, “we need to be careful. We need to, like, draw lines between what we’re willing to do and what would be too much.”

“I understand that,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s hand. “We don’t have to decide right now. Irving gave us until tomorrow, so let’s sleep on it, okay?”

“Okay.”

***

“You said you remembered me like a happy ending,” Harry says.

“Yes.”

“Tell me how happy it is, please. Tell me how happy we are.”

The sun is rising. They barely slept since they agreed to make a decision about the offer later, dozing on and off, simultaneously too exhausted and too keyed up to properly fall asleep. They don’t have much time left before they need to get up and go back to the airport, back to London and their life.

Everything is uncertain. Louis had thought of this trip as a closure of sorts. Going back to New York was supposed to be a final goodbye to the place where they had met, and fought, and survived. Now they are faced with the possibility of coming back because someone asked them to.

_We need you here. Let it not be said, that we weren’t better than those we overthrew. What kind of hero do you want to be?_

Harry is asking for a happy ending and Louis knows what it means – he’s made his decision. They’ll be coming back. So Louis says,

“We are happy like a bright winter morning, when the sky is clear and blue and you don’t care one bit about how cold it is because the wind against your cheeks makes you remember how alive you are.

We are happy like an endless spring afternoon, the ones you spend lounging on the grass at a park, eyes closed, and you can hear the laughter of children playing near you. When you inhale you think that nothing else but spring can smell like this. Like everything is possible.

We are happy like a hot summer night, the ones that make you wonder if you’ll ever be able to sleep again, where everything seems heavy and slow, like the world could be on the verge of ending and you’re the only person left on earth.

We are happy like an autumn afternoon, when you’re cuddled up inside your flat, watching the rain fall outside. It’s a feeling you don’t get often, the feeling that you’re grateful for what you have, as simple and little as it sometimes seems to be. A warm place, with hours in front of you to do whatever you want with them.”

“All those things you described,” Harry says, “I remember them. I’ve had them all, with you.”

“I know.”

Harry shifts in his arms, trying to get closer, even though it should be impossible, and Louis holds on to him. 

“Thank you,” Harry mumbles against Louis’ neck and Louis knows it for what it is.

If they’re going to do this again – and they are, they are going back to what they know best – they need to believe that it’s worth it. They can’t think about what it’s going to entail, about lying to the boys and their families, about becoming double agents. Not now anyway.

“Always,” Louis whispers.

Together, they exhale.

***

Later that morning, Louis sends two texts. One to Ben Winston and one to Irving Azoff.

They both say, “we accept.”

***

 _Musset once wrote_ , where do the tears of the people go?

 _You think it’s a valid question, albeit a difficult one to answer. You don’t know about the people, but you remember crying. You remember one night, one terrible night, where you found yourself whispering in a broken tone_ I would still grab your hand, Haz, I would _._

_It’s not like you have forgotten what war was like. You speak about it often. You write about it. You dream about it._

_So you stand in a room where you used to live, the man you’re so so in love with next to you and when he tells you he misses war you can’t do anything but say –_ I know. I miss it too.

_You think about sacrifices. About how they only make sense if they have a meaning. You wonder if that’s history. Endless parades of men and women refusing to stop, refusing to let go lest it all be in vain._

_You have a story now, you know you have. It starts with you going to war and it ends with you coming back from war. It’s a perfect story, one that makes people cry and sigh and empathize with you._

_You don’t tell them that stories are lies. You don’t tell them that there’s no such thing as a beginning, a middle, an end. That it’s all a deliberately constructed narrative destined to please the crowd. (They are the crowd, but you don’t tell them that either.)_

_So you say,_ I went to war _(you smile while doing so). The crowd, that doesn’t know it’s the crowd, answers “oh”, and “ah”, and “really?”. You’re an actor, a brilliant actor, forever playing your part._

_You say, “I went to war.” That’s the beginning._

_You say, “I came back from war.” That’s the end._

_You never say, “I miss it, sometimes. I dream about it, often. I’d go back, if I had to.”_

_That’s not part of the story. That’s part of what happens after. And people only care about happy endings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The play in question is called [”Lorenzaccio”](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lorenzaccio)  
> I saw a (very gay) version of it when I was 15 and it was glorious.


	2. 1.

1.

“History is painted by the winners.”

Richard Siken, “Landscape with several small fires”, in  _War of the foxes_.

There have been three instances in his life before this one when Harry has needed to pack knowing that he wasn’t only organizing clothes in a suitcase, but also deciding what he deemed important enough to keep in his life and what would forever be left behind.

The first time, was when he’d packed to go away to uni. It was new and exciting and he felt so ready to get away from his small hometown, become a renowned photographer and take over the world. For the longest time, he thought about it like the height of freedom; before freedom was taken away from him and it felt like he would never have it again. 

Then, there was the time he’d packed to move away to New York. It was a rushed decision – he had just finished his first year of uni, but he was bored and convinced that this wasn’t the way to become a renowned photographer. He was in love though, or what felt like being in love. His plans for the future didn’t necessarily involve England and, when his boyfriend had announced that he was thinking about accepting a job offer in New York, Harry had thought – _might as well_. The boyfriend didn’t last but New York did.  He fell in love with the city, the rush, the noises, the smell of food at every corner of every street and he stayed. He stayed after the Elections happened and stayed after the Riots happened and stayed until the city he had once loved had become a shell of its former self. Still. He stayed.

The third time wasn’t of his own choosing. Yet, in a way, it was the most important one: He had gone back to his flat with Louis, a day after meeting him, intent on packing enough to last him a little while, unsure of what the future would bring. He had left Louis standing on the pavement, keeping watch, and had climbed the stairs that led to his flat to find out that it had been ransacked. All the things he had once put away and taken with him, thinking that he couldn’t part away with them were lying on the floor in utter chaos. But that wasn’t the terrible part. The terrible part was realising that there was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t have the time to pick things up from the floor and order them again, to erase what had been done to his life. He didn’t have the time to decide what should be left behind and what should be kept.

He kind of remembers Louis calling his name but he isn’t sure. He does remember getting up from where he had been kneeling on the floor and turning around to face Louis. In the twenty-four hours they had known each other Harry had already seen uncertainty flicker through Louis’ gaze. Uncertainty just before he had grabbed Harry’s hand and told him to run, uncertainty before deciding to let Harry come back with him to the headquarters, uncertainty when they had stood alone in Louis’ bedroom, two strangers brought together by unconventional circumstances and not knowing how to act around each other now that the adrenaline rush of the night had passed. That time, though, it had been uncertainty mixed with something else. Something very close to understanding, something akin to sorrow.

There had been clothes and books and pictures on the floor, things he had considered precious, and then there had been Louis, urging him to hurry up, in a tone that was almost an apology. He remembers looking at Louis and thinking that this stranger was his future.

He didn’t know how right he was.

“Ready?” Louis asks, from the entrance of their bedroom.

Harry looks up from his half empty suitcase to find him resting against the wall, arms crossed against his chest in the protective way he does when scared. Harry doesn’t blame him. He’s scared too. 

“Yeah, almost done,” he says, instead of voicing his fears. Underneath the apprehension that has once again settled on his shoulders, about the future and about what they’re going to do, there’s something else.

It’s his fourth time packing knowing that, one way or another, his life is going to change, but this time it doesn’t matter what he’s taking with him and what he’s leaving behind. He’s going away with Louis and that’s enough for now.

*** 

The flight to New York is uneventful. Louis spends most of it asleep, head resting on Harry’s shoulder, legs bundled up under a blanket. The sight of him is a far cry from how he had spent the flight which had taken them to the city last spring. Back then, he had been a restless bundle of energy, always talking and moving, barely leaving Harry enough time to breathe until they had reached New York where he had quieted down.

The thing is, Harry knows Louis. Perhaps even better than he knows himself. There’s not much about Louis that is a secret to him, and Louis has never tried to keep things from Harry. That’s not how they work. Their friendship, and then their relationship, has been built on the unspoken agreement that even if they should, one day, lose everything else, they would still have each other. It’s mutual trust and understanding and it works for them.

Harry knows Louis but he had almost forgotten about Louis in New York. Because time had passed and, despite all the pictures Harry had taken when they were there, despite his recollection of those times, the memories had begun to blur a bit. Seeing him back in the city had felt like being punched, like taking a breath of fresh air after spending hours underwater. Like falling in love all over again. Louis belonged there.

And Harry, well. Harry belongs with Louis. So here they are again.

At the airport, they’re greeted by a man with a warm smile.

“James Corden, the British ambassador,” he introduces himself. “But please call me James. Nice to have you back here with us, boys!”

They take a car to their new flat and Harry tries not to let his thoughts drift toward an empty penthouse in Brooklyn. It’s not even about the fact that he would like to live there again, but the fact that it had been home, for a little while, and a part of him will always long for it, for early mornings spent cooking breakfast in the kitchen while waiting for Louis to wake up, for moments of peace in the midst of the most terrifying time of his life.

But the building they park in front of looks nothing like the one where they used to live. It’s huge and modern and must be ridiculously expensive.

“You’ve got a better deal than I did,” James laughs, echoing Harry’s thoughts. “But I’m no war hero, contrary to you both.”

The way he says it is light and teasing and Harry appreciates that, the lack of reverence, of hypocritical awe. They get into what is, according to James, a private lift and step out directly into their flat. James whistles before saying,

“I’d show you around but I’m afraid it’s the first time I’ve been here too.”

The flat is, well, big. There’s no other way to put it. The entrance opens on a living room with high ceilings, separated from a high tech kitchen at the very end of it by an imposing kitchen counter. A small corridor seems to be leading to the bedrooms and the bathrooms but Harry doesn’t bother exploring this part of the flat yet. What grabs his attention is an immense terrace with an outdoor swimming pool. It’s, to put it mildly, completely over the top.

And it’s fine, because there’s a reason why they’re being given this flat they could never afford even if they worked a lifetime or two. Harry gets the message, loud and clear.

“Here are the keys to the flat,” James says, putting down a pair of keys on the kitchen counter. “I trust you’ll be able to settle in without me?”

“We’ll be fine,” Harry answers. “Thank you so much for picking us up and showing us to our new flat.”

“Right,” James smiles. “You have a meeting tomorrow morning with Mr Winston and Mr Cowell. A car will come by to pick you up. If you need anything, please call me. Here’s my card.”

“Thank you,” Louis says, taking the card.

“Let’s have dinner, one of these days,” James says while waiting for the lift to come back up. “My wife has always had a keen interest in your work.”

“Of course,” Louis replies with a grateful smile.

The lift arrives and they both bid James goodbye.

“So,” Louis starts, when they’re alone again. “An outdoor pool?”

Harry shrugs, trying to maintain the illusion of a cool exterior but his eye catches Louis’ and he bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, it’s…”

“Tacky?” Louis suggests.

“Only if it also serves as a Jacuzzi.”

“We should check,” Louis says, opening one of the large windows. “Come on, Haz, let’s go outside.”

The evening breeze is just warm enough to be pleasant, and they both let themselves fall onto the reclining chairs bordering the pool.

“Don’t know if it also serves as a Jacuzzi, but this is nice,” Harry says.

“What d’you reckon?” Louis asks. “Are they aiming at impressing us or do they want us to impress everybody else?”

“Both, I guess. I do hope they’re just not trying to compensate for something else,” Harry says, waggling his eyebrows. 

Louis laughs, delighted. “Well, remind me to look suitably impressed tomorrow.”

“You can count on me,” Harry smiles, closing his eyes. The view from the terrace is breath-taking but, right now, it’s the atmosphere of the city he wants to take in. The way the air smells a bit differently than in London, the rush of noises, Louis’ calm breathing next to him. There shouldn’t be a difference in it and, in truth, there isn’t, but it still feels like Louis is breathing a little easier, a little more contentedly. “I love you,” Harry says.

He doesn’t open his eyes to look at Louis but, then again, he doesn’t need to know that Louis is smiling.

***

“Here are your contracts,” a young man who must be an assistant says, depositing a pile of papers in front of Harry where he and Louis are sitting around a huge oval table.

“Thank you,” Harry answers, eyeing the papers tiredly. He’s read those contracts before and knows what they contain. It doesn’t make the prospect of signing them - of surrendering his own life and image to someone else, someone he doesn’t trust -  for the next six months appealing in any way. “Lou?” he asks in a low voice, even though he’s not looking at Louis. There’s a question in the way he says it. They’ve talked about it; they’ve agreed to it, it’s the sole purpose of their presence here yet he needs the reassurance, one last time.

“I’ll go first,” Louis says and it’s Harry’s question answered, right there. Harry nods and lets Louis read through the papers before signing them. When his turn comes, he doesn’t bother reading through them again. A signature at the bottom of the last page and it’s over. Or it begins.

“Here,” he says looking up to smile tightly at Simon Cowell and Ben Winston eyeing them from the other side of the table.

To Harry’s surprise, Winston doesn’t talk. “Thank you,” Simon says, gesturing for the assistant to come take care of the contracts. “I’m glad this one thing is done. Now, if you don’t mind, there are several things I’d like for us all to go over. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure,” Louis replies. “We don’t have any pressing matters to attend to.”

Harry tenses, waiting to see how the men in front of them will answer to the cheek in Louis’ tone, but neither of them reacts. There’s something that passes through Simon’s eyes though, something Harry doesn’t know what to make of. Something like acknowledgement.

“Right. I trust you found your new accommodations to be satisfactory?”

“They are impressive,” Harry answers with a smile. He hears Louis trying – and failing – to contain a snort next to him and his smile widens. All right. They can do this. They can be good at this.

“I’m glad,” Simon continues, unfazed. “The first thing I want to talk to you about is tomorrow’s press conference. It will look like an ordinary one, except that we’ll take advantage of it for you to announce your support to our Government. One of the journalists, an, ah, acquaintance of mine, will give me a cue and I’ll trust that one of you will be able to carry on from there?”

“I’ll take care of the announcement,” Louis replies and Simon looks pleased.

“Good. Be sure to dress appropriately. You don’t need a stylist for an event such as a press conference, but I still want you to make an impression. Play the part, yeah?”

“Of course,” Harry agrees.

“Now that this is settled, I’d like to talk to you about a second thing. It’s not a contractual obligation and you are, of course, at liberty to say no, but I think it would be beneficial for all of us.”

“What is it?” Louis asks.

“A dinner party. Or rather, I think that you should throw a dinner party. Maybe after the buzz that will surround the press conference has settled but not too late either. We will want to take advantage of the surprise your very public return to New York is going to create.”

“Is it? Gonna be a surprise, I mean? People are already talking about it, from what I’ve gathered,” Louis asks.

“If I do my job well and, as you may remember Louis, I’m very good at what I do, it will. They may know that you’re back, but they don’t know why yet. We can’t afford to let this opportunity pass. I know it’s still early and that we have a long few months before the next Elections, but we need to get started as soon as possible to ensure that the rich will vote for our Government. And that, Louis,” Simon says with a hint of steel in his voice, “is your job. Which I hope you’ll be good at. We are, after all, compensating you generously enough.”

“I understand,” Louis says.

“Good. So, what do you say?”

“It would be a pleasure to do it,” Harry answers. Contractual obligations or not, they don’t have much of a say in the matter. Better if it looks like they’re doing it willingly. “Do you have a list of people we should be inviting, maybe?”

“I do,” Simon replies. He’s smiling like someone who’s won, leaving Harry to wonder how much relies on this dinner party. “And please make sure that your, ah, group of friends from the Rebellion will be there, yes?”

“I heard that Zayn had some trouble getting into the country, last spring,” Louis says.

“I’m sorry to hear that. A mistake, undoubtedly, although I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Louis answers. “Is that all? Or are there other matters you wanted to talk to us about?”

“No that’ll be all. I’ll see you tomorrow for the press conference.”

“Of course.”

Harry and Louis get up, shaking hands with Simon and Winston, before exiting the building.

“I’m not sure what this dinner party thing is about,” Louis frowns while they’re waiting for the car to pick them back up. “Sounds like something you should tell our, ah, friends tonight when you see them at dinner.”

“Sure,” Harry agrees. There are other things that bother him, things like how silent Winston had been during the meeting, when Harry had expected him to be the one leading it, things like the calculating way Simon had looked at Louis. There’s not much he can do about it right now, though, not with how little they know. “Sure,” he repeats. “I will.”

***

“Those are the people you need to look out for,” Irving says, placing a bunch of pictures in front of Harry.

They’re sitting in the private room of a restaurant Harry has never heard of before tonight, but everything has changed since he’s last lived in New York. What hasn’t changed is the sneaking around he had to do to get here. He examines all the pictures before saying,

“Ben Winston isn’t in any of them.”

“Forget about Ben Winston,” Irving answers, with a dismissive gesture of the hand. “He’s a mediocre politician at best, a sycophant at worst.”

“But he was there this morning, when we signed our contracts.”

“A decoy,” Irving says. “Look, I understand that you have...a history with him. And I do get how infuriating it must be knowing that he’s free when he should be judged for his role during the war. But he’s not a part of this Government and what it’s doing. He’s just a pawn. Those are the people who are in power, behind the scenes,” he says, fingers tapping nervously on the table, next to the pictures. “Those are the ones we’re gonna need you to watch.”

“Who are they?”

Irving goes through the different pictures, explaining to Harry who those people are and what their role in the current Government is. There are some names Harry recognises, eliciting in him the same sensation of terror they used to when they worked for the previous Government and any of their whims could mean the arrest or the death of the ones they had chosen to get rid of. And then, there are other names. 

“So,” Harry says. “Simon.” 

“Yes,” Irving sighs, “Simon. Your ex commander.”

“What does he do?”

“We would all like to know,” Irving replies. “He seems to be something of a grey eminence. He doesn’t have any official role, see, yet he’s everywhere and we suspect the most controversial politics of this Government originated from him. We can’t prove anything, of course, but I think your earlier meeting with him was quite telling, wasn’t it?”

It was.

“And no one questions it?”

“What would they question?” Irving shrugs. “He’s a war hero, the leader of the biggest rebel group in New York, from which some of the most renowned names in the Rebellion originated. As you should know,” he adds pointedly. “He’s capitalizing on that. People trust war heroes, you see.”

“How bad is the situation?” Harry asks. It’s somewhat naïve, considering the purpose of this dinner, of he and Louis coming back to New York in the first place, but there’s only so much of a situation you can assess from thousands of miles away. The brief two days they had spent in New York during the spring hadn’t given him much hindsight into the complexity of the political situation, except for a foreboding sense of fear and restlessness, something Harry knew intimately and had hoped he’d never have to experience again.

“Well it’s not irreversible,” Irving starts. “Mostly because the Government didn’t have time to do much damage. Yet.”

“But?”

“But we can’t allow them to get re-elected. It would, to be honest with you, be a disaster. You see, none of these people are in this to help the country. They’re in it to help themselves. They like the power and what having it entails. Money isn’t going into the Rebuilding efforts like it should be, but into their pockets, even though there’s no way we can prove it. The economic situation is shaky, at best, and it shows no sign of improving.” He sighs before continuing, “We are living in critical times. If no one does the right thing… Well, I’m afraid we’re heading toward a disaster even bigger than what happened after the Riots.”   

“I can’t even imagine that,” Harry answers.

“No, nor should you have to.”

“There’s something else, though,” Harry says. “Something you’re not telling me. Zayn not being able to get into the country… It has nothing to do with the economic situation, has it?”

“It’s not something we can prove,” Jeff intervenes. “The economic argument is something that helps people see our point of view. What almost happened to your friend… What’s happening to a lot of people is a much more complicated matter.”

“Are they… Are they implementing racial laws?”

“Not as such,” Irving replies, getting back into the conversation. “But some people are strongly advised not to come back in the country and to stay where they sought refuge during the war.  Or they’re not given the allowance that has been put into place to help most people settle back.”

“It’s not only a matter of race, though,” Jeff continues. “I have a couple of friends – gay friends – that have been waiting for their allowance for more than six months now, when it usually only takes two at most.”

“But Louis and I…”

“You and Louis,” Irving laughs and it’s a harsh sound. “Precisely.”

“You’re both war heroes,” Jeff says, “but you’re not the only war heroes, are you? Did you not wonder why they asked you and not someone else? One of your friends, for example?”        

“Winston said that our story was inspiring,” Harry answers, although what they’re trying to tell him is starting to get rather obvious.

“It is,” Irving says. “And they’re going to sell it to the public. A beautiful story to make sure that no one takes a second look at who they’re voting for.”

“And if it has the added benefit of making them look tolerant and accepting…” Harry begins.

“It’s perfect for them,” Jeff concludes.

“I get it,” Harry says.

“Good. Because we need you to understand how important the work you’ll be doing is, even though it’s not as glamorous as fighting on a battlefield,” Irving tells him. “But let’s go back to our dinner, shall we? I think we’ve covered enough ground for now.”

Harry nods and the conversation starts drifting toward less pragmatic matters.

“He’s sorry we couldn’t invite you both, you know,” Jeff says glancing at Irving.

“It’s fine,” Harry answers, “Louis understands.”

“So, how does it feel being back here?”

“Weird,” Harry smiles ruefully. “Like history is repeating itself yet everything has changed.”

“Ah yes. I guess history has a tendency to do or feel like that. Let’s hope for a better ending this time, though. I hope you know how much we appreciate you doing this for us,” Jeff says. “We need people like you and Louis. People who have been there already. Who are not afraid to sacrifice things.”

Except that’s not it. When the Elections and then, later on, the Riots had happened, Harry had been caught in the middle of it all. He had told Louis once that it had never occurred to him that he couldn’t go back to England, but it also had never occurred to him that he could leave. It would have felt too much like admitting defeat, maybe.

Louis, though. Louis was different. Louis had wanted to come to New York, had wanted to fight. Had felt an encompassing need to do something, not for himself but for others, something that he thought was right. Harry had watched him carefully, almost relentlessly, for months, tearing himself apart trying to win a war that wasn’t his, yet was the only one he knew how to fight. He had seen all those contradictory desires eating Louis away until there was almost nothing left of him, not even the knowledge that what they were doing had a purpose. 

Harry had watched him, a steady presence by his side. For Louis there had been the fight, the necessity to win and for Harry… Well, for Harry, there had been Louis. That had been his mission, his driving purpose during all this. Staying by Louis’ side and keeping him sane. Keeping him as intact as he could with how little he had – a few stories he had read, sketchy metaphors and the kind of love that makes you promise yourself in the middle of the night, with a determination sometimes so fierce it’s almost frightening, I will do anything if you ask me to.

He doesn’t know how to say that, how to put it into words in a way that would make sense to someone who wasn’t there with them, who didn’t see them like they were. Bruised and battered yet fuelled by something he has never been able to recapture since. A sense of possibility, Louis had called it. The belief that what would come after would be better. Maybe that’s why they’ve decided to fight now. To make sure that the sacrifices they made have meaning. So he answers,

“We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

“Speaking of,” Irving says, looking up from his phone, “we should settle some practical matters. Generally speaking it would be better for us to avoid looking too close. I’m afraid there’s no way to completely shut down the inevitable rumours about this dinner…”

“I was discreet,” Harry tries saying but is interrupted.

“I know you tried being discreet, but there’s only so much you can do when all of the city’s eyes are glued on you, watching your every move, wondering why you’re back in New York. Rumours aren’t always a bad thing, Harry. They could even help us in this case as long as we’re careful with how we decide to manipulate them. This is what our course of action is going to be: you will have to appear trustworthy to those people but not like you’re relying on them for your own political agenda.”

“Political agenda?”

“A hypothetical one, of course. But do you believe that those people think you agreed to their offer because of the goodness of your heart? The only thing people like them understand is give-and-take.  Well, give-and-take and coercion, I guess. It will be much easier to make them believe that you’re willing to help them if they think that they are helping you in return. That you want something from them.”

“For our own political agenda.”

“Yes,” Irving answers, smiling wolfishly. “As long as this agenda is something they think they know and understand, you’ll be safe.”

“Simon knows us, though. He knows we’re not like that.”

“Ah, but does he?” Irving counters.

Harry doesn’t answer. 

“It’s a game,” Irving continues. “Or, rather, a play. One where you’re playing the role of a tightrope walker, except that we can’t afford for you to fall.” He looks down at his phone and starts typing what looks like a text. “I’m sending you the contact of, let’s say, a mutual friend. It’d be better for you to reach out to them if there’s any need. The number you’ll receive isn’t their regular one but one dedicated to this purpose.  Don’t ask for their name, don’t call them. If there’s anything I need from you, I’ll be the one to contact you. Well, me or Jeff. Is that clear?”

“It is, yeah. May I ask where do you know this mysterious intermediary from?”

“We play golf together.”

“Right,” Harry says, raising one eyebrow. He opens his phone and adds the number to his contacts under _Sporty Spice_. “There’s one last thing I’d like to talk to you about.”

“What is it?” Irving asks.

“Simon, uh, suggested that we should throw a dinner party. One all of our friends would attend and a list of people he wants us to invite. Any idea why?”

“Well you’re his golden boys now. His ticket for the Government to be re-elected, to put it crudely. He wants to show you off. That’s what people with power and little idea of how to use it wisely do.”

“So, we throw the party and smile?”

“So you throw the party and smile. And start undermining the Government while doing so.” 

*** 

It’s late when Harry comes back to the flat. He lets the door shut behind him, taking off his boots and listening for some noise, trying to figure out if Louis is still awake. There’s a gentle melody coming from the living room, something sad and airy. Chopin, Harry registers. So Louis isn’t asleep yet. 

Harry finds him curled on the sofa, chin pressed against his knees, eyes closed. He seems lost in the music.

“Hey Lou,” Harry says, reluctant to put an end to the peaceful scene taking place in front of him.

“Haz,” Louis smiles, keeping his eyes shut. “Come sit down. How was dinner?”

“Dinner was fine, I suppose,” Harry answers, coming to sit next to Louis. He manoeuvres himself so that his knees are touching Louis’ and lets his head fall against the armrest. He closes his eyes and takes one deep breath before recounting what he has learned to Louis.

“So, Simon huh?” Louis asks once Harry’s done.

“Yes. Apparently, having Winston come to us after the Ceremony and being there this morning was only, like, a ploy I guess. So that we would focus on him and not on Simon.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Louis sighs. One of his hands comes to rest on Harry’s knee in a caress. “And the things Jeff told you make sense with what I learned from Len when we came back during the spring. About Senna not being invited to the Ceremony.” 

Harry opens his eyes. Louis’ mouth is set in a harsh line and his brow furrowed in the way it does when he’s trying to find the answer to a difficult problem.

“Did they tell you what they’re expecting from us?” Louis asks, when he starts speaking again.

“They want us to keep a close eye on the people I told you about. And to pass information on to them. They gave me this intermediary’s number,” Harry answers. “They were actually rather vague about the whole thing. I think they don’t know for sure how the situation is gonna play out and that they’re waiting it out, a bit, before asking more specific things of us.”

“Ah,” Louis says. “We’re the unknown factor in the equation, I see.”

“I guess so,” Harry answers, and his brain hurts. Before tonight, he’d thought that the situation, if not ideal, was at least rather straightforward and simple, in the way fighting against the Government had been during the war. An enemy, a battlefield, the will to win. He’s beginning to understand that what’s happening now seems to be much more complex than he had first anticipated, and he and Louis somehow found themselves in the middle of it all.

“So we’re both playing spies and war heroes?” Louis laughs. 

“Is it spies or double agents?” Harry replies. “Is there even a difference?”

“Dunno, being a spy is more glamorous I think. Double agent just makes it seem like you’re betraying everybody.”

“So spies it is. Spies and war heroes.”

“We’re only heroes because our side won, you know?”

“I know,” Harry replies. He can still hear Winston’s words in his head – _an inspiring story_ – and Irving’s ones – _a beautiful story_.

Is what they’re about to do so different from what they’ve been doing since their return to London? 

When he was younger, Harry took pictures because they were a way to not let moments fade, to capture something fleeting, something on the brink of disappearing and to transform it into something that would never die. It’s this awareness that things are fragile, that there’s not much that keeps them alive, that had pushed him to continue taking pictures, and that had made him want to make a living out of it, even when everybody else was telling him that becoming a photographer was a feeble dream. He remembers being young and looking at the snow during winter mornings only to imagine that it would soon be marred by traces of footprints. So he had taken pictures.

Later, during the war, taking pictures had morphed into something else, something akin to necessity. He had taken pictures so that he wouldn’t forget what they were going through and so that the world wouldn’t forget what they had gone through. Pictures as proof that it had happened, that it had been real.

 _I was there. This is what I saw. This is who I was_.

The difference, is that the story they’re going to sell to the public now isn’t aiming at telling the truth, unlike his photographs or Louis’ conferences.

“I know,” Louis starts again, “that we play the part, even back home. That we play at being war heroes. But that’s not what it felt like to me. That’s not how I lived it.”

It’s kind of an unspoken topic between them, not necessarily taboo, but something they don’t talk about because there’s not much to say. Louis is only breaching it because he needs reassurance. So Harry answers,

“It’s all right. I remember you.”

And the thing is, he does. He remembers Louis strategizing with Liam in the living room of the Brooklyn penthouse and Louis at the Factory, coming back from his missions to slide next to Harry in their tiny bed, always bright, always luminous, always loved by Harry. He could forget a thousand things, but he could never forget falling in love with Louis.

“Thank you,” Louis answers, voice high and raspy.

Harry extends an arm between them and waits for Louis to take his hand. When he does, grabbing it gently, Harry smiles.

Tomorrow they’ll have to give a press conference. Tomorrow they’ll have to start lying to everyone. But right now, in this moment, it’s still just the two of them and Harry lets himself bask in it.

He doesn’t need to take a picture to know that he won’t forget it.

***

“It’s all about him, isn’t it?” a voice coming from behind Harry says, startling him. He turns around to find a woman who appears to be in her thirties smiling at him.

“Julia,” she introduces herself, still smiling. “Ambassador Corden’s wife. We haven’t met before, but I’ve heard a lot about you, Harry Styles.”

“Oh hello,” Harry answers, trying not to let his momentary surprise show. “Lovely to meet you. Your husband has been incredibly kind and helpful with us moving back here.”

“Thank you. I like to think I chose him well,” she laughs.

“You did,” Harry smiles, turning around to resume looking at Louis. He’s speaking to Simon, his face barely discernible in the shadows created by the sun starting to set, but Harry can still guess how expressive his features must be, how animated and lively. Tonight is supposed to be about the two of them, about the couple they make and what their support will entail in terms of public sympathy and trust in the current Government but, staring at the neat lines of Louis’ silhouette, the pride with which he holds himself, Harry can’t help but admit that Julia is right.

It’s all about Louis.

Something within him aches.

“I’m sorry,” Julia says, her fingertips resting against Harry’s shoulder for a few seconds. The gesture seems to be an apology yet it’s hard to tell what she would be apologizing for. His silence must convey as much because she continues, “It will get lonely, you know. It will feel like you can’t reach out to him anymore, like he’s always too tired, too preoccupied or too busy carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for you two to talk.”

“I’m not sure…” Harry starts but Julia shakes her head, seemingly intent on finishing what she has to say before letting Harry answer her. So Harry falls silent again and lets her go on.

“You’ll still love him,” she says in a delicate tone, “of course you will. But it will seem like it’s not enough anymore. And when it happens, when you wake up one morning and feel like you’re all alone with your love resting fragilely in the palms of your hands and that the only person you want to give it to isn’t here to receive it anymore, you’ll need a friend.”

“Why are you telling me that?” Harry asks.

“I’m good friends with Shelli Azoff,” Julia answers, “and James likes you.”

“And?”

“And, most importantly, I’ve been there,” she shrugs. “It’s not something I’d wish for anyone to go through on their own.”

“I’m not on my own,” Harry answers. He wishes the conference was over already. He feels disquiet and restless, and wants to be left alone with Louis, to be reassured that this isn’t a mistake. That they made the right choice. His fingers ache to get a hold on Louis.

“No, I guess you’re not. Here’s my number anyway,” she says, holding out a card. “If you ever feel like you need it. Good luck with the conference.”

“Thank you,” he answers, tucking the card away.

She gives him one last sad smile before disappearing into the hallways of the building. Harry doesn’t move, taking a few moments to calm down and to try shaking off the unease coursing through his veins. It’s going to be all right. They’re going to be all right, Louis and him.

He closes his eyes and, when he opens them again, Louis is standing in front of him, expression caught between a frown and a smile.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Who were you talking to?”

“James Corden’s wife,” Harry answers. “And yeah, I’m fine,” he adds, not willing to recount the conversation. “Everything is fine.” Louis’ frown doesn’t disappear, though, and it’s Harry’s turn to ask if everything is fine.

“Yeah, it is,” Louis answers.

“What did Simon want?”

“To give me some sort of last minute advice, I guess? I don’t know. He was never this… overbearing during the war.”

“The stakes are different now,” Harry replies carefully. There’s not much more he can say here, where they could be overheard. His hands come up to soothe the lines of worry on Louis’ forehead. Louis smiles, leaning into Harry’s touch.

“You’re right. I was just taken aback,” Louis answers. The _why me_ is left unsaid but Harry hears it nonetheless. _It’s all about you_ , he doesn’t say out loud. “Let’s go get seated,” Louis says. “It’s gonna start soon.”

“Right. Can I just?” Harry starts before breaking off. _Can I touch you?_ He wants to ask, but he’s already touching Louis, hands now cupping each side of his face. Yet, he still needs to get closer to Louis, to make the unsettling feeling his conversation with Julia has created go away, but he doesn’t know how to tell Louis that without having to explain what happened.

“Whatever you want, Haz” Louis says and, not for the first time, Harry is relieved that they’re so attuned to each other, that they don’t always need words. So Harry kisses him, trying to forget what Julia said, trying to forget that they’re standing at the edge of a room filled with people they’re going to deceive and lie to for the next six months. He allows himself this, this moment of truth, of complete honesty. This is who he is, a man kissing the man he’s in love with. Louis’ lips part under his and Harry sighs into the kiss, its easiness and utter familiarity.

This is who he is.

“We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?” he asks once the kiss has ended, his lips hovering over Louis’ neck.

“I don’t know,” Louis answers, brutal in his honesty. “But if we aren’t, at least we’re doing it for the right reasons.” Which is _almost_ good enough.

“Let’s go find our seats then,” Harry says.

Hand in hand, they walk away from the terrace and enter the room where they’ll be publicly pledging their allegiance to people they don’t believe in.

They take their seats next to Simon and, now that it’s happening, it’s more terrifying than Harry imagined it would be. Their families will support them, although they may be hurt that they didn’t let them in on their plans, but he’s not so sure about the boys. He’ll see what happens at the dinner party.

The lights in the room are turned off and everything goes dark. Harry closes his eyes and inhales deeply, his left hand searching for Louis’. When he finds it he exhales and opens his eyes again. The lights are back on and every person in the country having access to a telly must be seeing them on their screen.

Harry plasters a smile on his face and thinks, _so it begins_.

***

“Now that you’ve answered most of our questions, can you tell us why Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson are here?” one of the most zealous journalists – Dan, Harry thinks – asks.

“I think I’ll let them do that themselves,” Simon smiles. “I wouldn’t want to speak on their behalf when they’re in the same room. Louis,” he says, turning to face him, “would you like to do the honours?”

Louis’ smile wavers, but doesn’t fall. No one other than Harry would have caught the barest hesitation.

“Of course,” Louis answers, before clearing his throat. “We are here, Harry and I,” Louis begins, “because, as you probably all know, we both love this country. We fought for it to the best of our abilities during the Rebellion and we want everybody to know that we are still willing to fight for it.”

Harry registers distantly that Louis, so far, has only been telling the truth.  A brief sense of pride surges through him as well as an idea he hasn’t taken the time to entertain before, the idea that Louis is good at this. He lets go of it as quickly as it came to him, filing it for later examination, as he forces himself to go back to listening to what Louis is saying.

“I think that the work we’ve both done, during the past few years, has made it clear that we understand that these kinds of wars aren’t over with one battle won and that they go on longer. We understand that the Rebuilding is as important, if not more, as the Rebellion itself was. Like I said, both Harry and I have been working from London in an attempt to bring awareness to what happened here. Although I’m sure you must have been too busy to pay us any kind of attention,” he adds. The crowd of journalists laughs and one “of course we’ve been paying attention” fuses from the audience.

“Thank you,” Louis answers. “What I mean is, we both realised, when we came back here a few months ago for the first anniversary of the end of the war, that there was still a vast amount of work to be done and that this work couldn’t be done from London. There are still people who haven’t been able to come back to live in what used to be their home. There are still people out there, people like you and me, who are suffering the consequences of the havoc the previous Government has wreaked on this country. We want to help those people. Which is why,” he says – and his tone doesn’t waver once this time, “we have decided to pledge allegiance to the Government of the Rebuilding and do everything in our power to ensure that, six months from now, it will be elected again.”

The applause that greets the end of Louis’ speech is deafening.

***

“You were incredible out there,” Harry says as Louis closes the door of the flat behind them. “Your speech was incredible.”

It’s late, quickly approaching midnight, and they’ve just arrived back home. There had been questions after Louis’ speech and, after the questions, mingling and talking and networking. This is what their lives are going to be like now. It’s a different kind of fight than the one they’re used to, less obvious, less frontal, but the goal is the same. 

“Was it?” Louis asks. “I tried lying as little as possible to make it more believable.”

“I noticed. It’s what made it incredible. They all ate it up.”

“Thanks love,” Louis smiles – a bit shy. “It’s not so different from my conferences, so I guess I’ve had ample practice.”

“I guess you did,” Harry acknowledges. He knows when to stop pushing for Louis to accept compliments. He takes his suit jacket off and wanders in the direction of the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “Do you want to go to bed right now? I feel kind of keyed up.”

“We can go have a drink on the terrace before going to bed if you want,” Louis answers.

“That would be nice, yeah. I’ll just go change first.”

“Sure. I’ll make us our drinks, love.”

In the bedroom Harry divests himself of the rest of his suit, putting on yoga pants and a soft cashmere jumper before heading off in direction of the terrace. Outside the air is still warm despite the late hour and Louis is seated on one of the reclining chairs, shirt halfway unbuttoned, drinks set on a coffee table.

Harry sits down on the chair next to Louis’ and takes a sip of his drink. Louis smiles at him but doesn’t start talking, lost in his own thoughts, and Harry takes advantage of the quiet moment to look at him unabashedly. Now that the weight of having to go through the conference has been lifted from his shoulders, he seems peaceful, long eyelashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks, mouth slacked, hands carefully holding his drink.

Harry is so in love with him it almost hurts to look at him directly, to take it all in. Still, he keeps his gaze even.

“Are you feeling better?” Louis asks.

“Yeah”, Harry says, taking another sip. The taste of the alcohol burns his tongue slightly,  but it’s a pleasant burn that slowly spreads through the rest of his body. “Thank you.”

“We could always take a midnight bath if you don’t feel relaxed enough,” Louis laughs, gesturing in direction of the pool. “Despite the appalling lack of a Jacuzzi feature.”

“Aren’t midnight baths supposed to take place in the ocean? Or like the sea?”

“I don’t think so? I think the time is more important than the location. If it’s somewhere around midnight and you’re in a body of water then it’s a midnight bath.”

“That’s less romantic than how I’d always imagined it.”

“We could make it romantic,” Louis suggests. “Light some candles, kiss under the stars…”

“There are no stars,” Harry remarks.

“Well then. We’ll just have to imagine them.”

“I’d like that,” Harry whispers, almost to himself. “But maybe not tonight.”

“No, not tonight,” Louis laughs. “We’ve had a big day, let’s go to bed, yeah?”

“Let’s.”

***

Despite his exhaustion Harry doesn’t fall asleep. He stays awake; eyes wide open, watching Louis rest. His body is relaxed under the sheets, face illuminated by the moonlight. The ache Harry felt earlier comes back, settling in his bones, something he can’t quite describe, a need to touch Louis, to make sure that he’s real and not just a figment of Harry’s imagination. It’s not something Harry likes to think about much, how they were brought together by unlikely circumstances, how easy it would have been to miss each other. How so much relies on so little. A decision made in a second to go out, one day, and try finding a group that may help him get away from the Government.

An inspiring story, Winston had called it. That’s what they’re going to be selling to the public for the next few months –  He and Louis meeting, he and Louis fighting, he and Louis winning. Them falling in love. There’s a necessity in what they’re doing, and he’s agreed to it. But, to him, it’s not just a story.

He lets his hand fall against Louis’ skin. It’s warm and smooth and he revels in the firmness of Louis’ body under his palm. It’s there. It’s real. There’s comfort in this small gesture as well as a feeling of frustration. Harry wishes he could abolish the barriers between them, that he could, somehow, crawl under Louis’ skin, that he could touch him right so – from within. A love like this can’t be so easily arranged into a story that makes sense, into something that’s destined to being sold. Not when he barely understands it himself, not when he sometimes wakes up and finds himself unable to move for the longest time, thanking a deity he doesn’t believe in for allowing him to feel this for someone else. For letting him have Louis and keep him.

The ache within Harry only seems to be getting stronger and he rests his forehead between Louis’ shoulder blades. He closes his eyes, his eyelashes fluttering against Louis’ skin. He presses a chaste kiss at the top of Louis’ spine _._

_A love like this._

The memory of how Louis had commanded the attention of a room full of journalists, of the easiness with which he had made them laugh, of the applause that had greeted the end of his speech comes back to Harry. Like Louis was born to do this, like he was made to have a crowd’s attention on him. Louis had been incredibly bright and luminous, in that moment, and Harry can’t fault those people for giving Louis their undivided attention. That’s what he does too.

 _It will get lonely, you know_ , Julia had said.

Harry isn’t stupid. He understands what she was trying to tell him. He understands the warning. But in this moment, when it’s so late it’s almost early, alone in a bedroom that isn’t theirs yet, with only silence surrounding them and Louis’ even breaths breaching it from time to time, Harry promises himself that it won’t happen, not to them.

They won’t be reduced to being just another story.


	3. 2.

2.

« We were spies and the confidants of spies _._  »

Richard Siken, “Landscape with black coats in the snow” in  _War of the foxes_.

 

A quick succession of flashes momentarily blinds Harry. He blinks once, twice, before the room comes into focus again. 

“I think we got it,” a woman’s voice coming from the direction of the flashes says, “thank you!”

Harry sighs and lets his shoulders slouch a little. Next to him, Louis is fidgeting, playing with the hem of his jacket, fingertips creating a nervous staccato.

“Do we have some time before, uh, the interview part?” Louis asks. “Or do you want to do it now?”

“No no,” the same voice answers, “you can take a break. I need to go through the pictures anyway.”

“Thank you, love,” Louis replies. Then, voice closer to Harry, “D’you want to change too? I don’t think I’ve properly breathed for the past hour in this tuxedo.”

“No I’m fine, go on,” Harry smiles. “I’ll just go grab something to drink.”

Besides him Louis gets up and Harry sees his silhouette passing in front of him. Despite his words, Harry doesn’t move. He stays on the sofa, dressed in what is the most expensive piece of clothing he has ever worn, and tries not to wonder about the absurdity of the picture he must be making.

“Are you all right?” the photographer asks, and Harry finally looks up.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Then shrugs, “just not used to being on the other side of the camera.”

“Ah yes,” she nods in understanding. “We’re all like this, aren’t we?  I drive my mum crazy at family gatherings.” She laughs, something light and airy. “Better get used to it, though. Everybody wants a piece of you right now.”

“Well,” Harry says, “I hope this interview will be enough for now. We’re rather private people.”

“Oh sure, I’m sorry,” she answers, tone apologetic. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Just, you know. You made quite the impression by coming back so publicly to New York. I’m sure it’ll die down soon enough.”

Harry nods in what he hopes is a pleasant manner. There’s not much chance for that to happen considering that their life is soon going to be plastered on a six-page spread in one of the most influential magazines in the country, but he can’t fault her for saying out loud what everybody is whispering at brunches and dinner parties. He can’t fault her for doing her job.

“Ah, Louis! Glad to have you back with us,” she exclaims.

“You should have changed too, Haz,” Louis says after throwing her a smile, “now I look shabby.”

He’s changed into black jeans and a comfortable jumper and, if anything, he looks cosy and  not shabby at all. Harry tells him so.

“I think you look perfect. I’m the one who looks stupid now.”

Louis laughs and presses a kiss against Harry’s forehead before settling back on the sofa. He crosses his legs and puts his forearms on his knees and – it’s amazing to watch. The softness in his demeanour doesn’t disappear but it’s dulled with something else, something like purpose, like intent.

“I think we’re both ready for that interview now,” he says.

“Right,” their interviewer says. “I know we’ve been through this before when we set up this interview, but just as a reminder. I’ll record our conversation and write it down later. The final draft will be sent to you for approval before it’s published. Do you still agree to that?”

“We do,” Louis answers.

“Great! Then let’s begin. Louis Tomlinson, 28 and Harry Styles, 26. Is that right?”

“It is,” Harry says.

“And how long have you been together?”

“Three years.”

“Now, we all know your story. You met during the Rebellion and fell in love while fighting together to free this country from the dark times it was going through. Would you like to recount what happened from your point of view? Our readers want to know!”

“It’s a long story,” Louis says. “Are you sure we have enough time?”

“For this story? All the time in the world.”

“Right, well. It began when I was trying to blow up a section of the subway…” Louis starts.

Harry keeps on smiling but lets his attention drift, while Louis tells their story to the best of his abilities. He’s a much better storyteller than Harry could ever hope to be although that doesn’t mean much. Where Harry’s slow drawl confuses people and seems to always leave them hanging, Louis’ precise high voice, despite the abundance of words, seems to get them exactly where he wants them to be. He can see it working right now, can see how the interviewer seems glued to every word coming out of Louis’ mouth, even though she already knows all about their story. It doesn’t bother Harry. Some people just seem to exist and emit light, like their existence is something so bright and miraculous that they can’t help but shine a little more than everybody else. And Harry is nothing if not attracted to light, always tracking it through his camera’s lens.

“And you Harry?” the interviewer asks, shaking Harry from his daydreaming.

“I’m sorry?”

“Louis was telling me about his book,” she smiles. “Do you have any plans you’d like to share with us? An exhibition coming up, maybe? I’m sure New York would welcome you as well, if not better, as London did.”

“Ah, no,” Harry answers, “I’m not planning any exhibition right now. But thank you.”

“That’s a shame,” she says. “Between us,” she adds in a confidential tone, “I’m a big fan of your work. Maybe… Maybe you could tell our readers what’s your favourite picture you’ve ever taken?”

“Well there’s one… There’s one I took one morning at the Factory that’s very dear to my heart.”

“Ah yes, the Factory! Too bad it was destroyed, such a mythical place… Although I’ve heard they’re building a memorial on its grounds?”

“I, uh, haven’t heard about that. But yes, obviously it’s a place where a lot of things happened. To us and in terms of the war effort, I guess.”

“And what about this picture? Have we ever seen it?”

“No, no. I kept it for myself,” Harry lets out a small laugh. “It’s not a remarkable picture or anything worth putting in an exhibition. It’s kinda blurry, even. But it reminds me of, well, a very special time in my life, I guess you could say.”

“I’m sure. Well, thank you for sharing that with us. And for answering my questions, it’s going to be a hit with our readers. I can tell.”

“Thank you for coming here,” Louis answers, shaking her hand as they all get up from their seats. “It was a pleasure.”

Harry bids her goodbye as well, accompanying her to the lift. He gives her one last smile as the doors of the lift close in on her. When she has disappeared from view, he lets out a sigh, ruffling his hair with one hand, and turns around to go find Louis. They need to plan the dinner party.

***

“I asked you this question once,” Louis says so quietly Harry almost doesn’t hear him.

“What question?” Harry asks. They’re lying in bed, spooning, and Harry was starting to fall asleep but is now wide-awake.

“The one about your favourite picture you’d ever taken,” Louis answers. “It was at the very beginning, when we barely knew each other. It’s fine if you don’t remember.”

“No,” Harry says, taking in a breath. “No, I remember. You asked me and I told you…”

“You told me to ask again after the war. That it wasn’t the right time to answer a question like this.”

“You never asked.”

“No I didn’t, did I?” The soft puffs of Louis’ breath tickle the back of Harry’s neck. He turns around to face Louis who’s looking at him. His eyes widen a bit when they meet Harry’s and his gaze is searching. “The picture you were talking about. The one you took at the Factory. Is it one I’ve seen?”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, although he’s not quite sure why. The moment bears something both fragile and heavy, as if they’re talking about something much more important than a simple picture. “I took it early one morning. We couldn’t sleep anymore and we went out so you could smoke a cigarette. It wasn’t a beautiful day, more like grey and kind of blurry, if mornings can be blurry. I said something that made you laugh and it’s just that. A picture of you, laughing, during a grey morning, outside of the Factory. It’s not much.”

“Why is it your favourite then?”

“You were laughing,” Harry repeats. He tries shrugging but Louis’ arms around him prevent him from moving. “It was at the beginning of our time there,” he continues, “and things still felt uncertain, you know? Like we weren’t sure exactly what it was we were doing. But during that morning, when we were so exhausted even coffee couldn’t do much for us, there was something else, something I could sense.”

“What was it?”

“It was what you said when we came back during the spring. A sense of possibility. I remember thinking that as bad as this was, as heavy as everything always seemed to be, we would never come back here again and be this, I guess. Be us the way we were at this precise moment. And you laughed and I took the picture. So that I wouldn’t forget. Not the moment but the feeling of the moment.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Louis says, after a moment.

“I said I would,” Harry answers, hoping Louis will understand what he’s trying to convey through those few words.

_Always._

***

“Today is the big day, isn’t it?” Harry hears his mother say faintly through the phone. He presses the phone closer to his ear, though nothing can be done about the distance between them.

“If by that you mean it’s the day of the dinner party, then yes,” he laughs, readjusting a bunch of white flowers in a vase.

“Is everything ready?” she asks.

“Hmm?” he replies, distracted. “Oh, yeah. I hired a catering company for tonight, I didn’t want to do everything by myself.”

“Well, couldn’t Louis help you?”

“By cooking?” he huffs a laugh and moves further into the living room to rearrange another bunch of flowers. He’s a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of them but, at the time, it had seemed like a good idea to fill their rather empty, if tastefully decorated, living room for the night. He doesn’t regret it but is reassured that he hasn’t missed his calling as a florist. “You know how Louis is,” he continues, “not much of a cook.”

“People change, love.”

“Not in a month!”

“Oh dear, has it already been a month?” she wonders. “Look how time flies! We should start making plans if I want to come visit you before you come back home.”

“It’s fine, mum,” he answers, uneasy. “We’re kinda busy anyway, I’m not sure it would be much fun for you to come here.”

It’s not a lie. Louis has been rather busy, his presence requested by Simon more often than not. Harry isn’t sure why it’s necessary for him to spend so much time hauled up in an office when he’s supposed to be the face of the Government’s campaign and not the brains behind it but, when asked, Louis had shrugged and answered that since the closer he was to Simon the more information he could pass on to the Azoffs, he wasn’t going to start asking questions. And Harry, well. Harry has been busy planning the dinner party.

He moves on to a third bunch of flowers, light pink this time. They don’t need to be rearranged, but it helps him focus on something other than the disappointed tone his mother has adopted.

Truth is, he doesn’t want her here. It may seem harsh but she doesn’t belong to this part of his life, the part dedicated to the war and what came after. It’s selfish but he wants to keep her away from all this and maybe it’s more about him than it’s about her. There should be one thing – at least one thing – that remains untainted by the memories of what had happened to him and what he’s doing now.

It’s a strange thing, living an existence where you’re constantly reminded of the worst part of your life and are being lauded for it. It’s what they agreed to and, in some way, knowing that they had a choice in this, that they signed the contracts, makes it somewhat easier to bear, but it’s still heavier than he thought it would be. Maybe they weren’t as healed as he had thought them to be. Maybe you can never truly get over something you had no choice in.

It’s different, this time, but not different enough that he would wish for his mother to become a part of it. So he makes a joke and, when she laughs, he exhales. He couldn’t protect himself and he couldn’t protect Louis, but he can protect her. 

“I’ll send you a picture of the flowers,” he offers, a small compromise.

“You do that,” she answers. “And I want a copy of this magazine when your interview comes out.”

“I’ll send you one,” he promises although he’s already done it before. Still, it makes him feel better that he can, at least, give her that.

They keep on chatting for a while, until there’s no flowers left for Harry to check on and it’s late enough that he should start getting dressed for the party. He bids his mother goodbye and hangs up, but doesn’t move. 

He inhales, the perfumes of hundreds of flowers making his head turn a little.

Everything is ordered and arranged, everything is ready. This is it. The day they step into their roles.

So, Harry leaves the room in order to get ready too.

***

The dinner party is a success.

It’s one thing to know that they work, he and Louis, that they always have, from the very first moment, but it’s another to get to experience it like this, to see the effect they both have on a room full of people watching them with avid eyes and expressions ready to turn sorrowful at the tiniest mistake they were to make.

They don’t make any mistakes. They work the room with ease, together at first, Louis’ hand resting against the small of Harry’s back, all delicate laughs and firm handshakes, then separately when it gets so crowded that their huge living room seems to have somehow shrunk. Louis is standing not quite in the middle of a circle of men, all dressed in their best suits, his hands moving fast, seemingly recounting an entertaining story if the noisy laughs coming from the group are any indication. Harry stares at him, almost drunker on the power coursing through his veins than on the half empty flute of champagne nestled in his hand.

“I’ve heard that you had dinner with the Azoffs, a few weeks ago?” a woman  – Mrs Howell, he thinks, visualizing Simon’s list of guests in his mind – tells him, more than asks, in a conspiratorial whisper.

Harry shrugs and gives her his brightest smile, aware that his dimples must be showing, “Old family friends. Not much of a scandal there I’m afraid.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to imply anything,” she replies so fast that she almost stumbles on her words.

“I didn’t think you were,” he answers, before leaning toward the buffet next to them. “Would you like anything? More champagne, maybe?”

“That would be lovely, thank you dear!”

“Well I wouldn’t want you to think that my hosting duties are lacking,” he says, taking her flute to refill it before handing it back to her. He watches her drink it in record time before continuing, adopting the same conspiratorial tone, saying, “Now I’ve heard, and this, of course, stays between us,” – she nods eagerly – “that more and more people are starting to think about supporting the Azoffs.”

“Well,” she huffs, “you know as well as I do how easily swayed the people can be.” The way she says _the people_ has an aristocratic condescension to it that somehow unsettles Harry. _Where were you_ , he thinks, _when they fought and died for you_? He recovers quickly though, and smiles as charmingly as he can muster.

“I didn’t mean “the people”,” he replies, mimicking her disparaging tone. “I meant some of our friends.” Her face falls, a tiny breach in her well-honed façade. “Some of them,” – he doesn’t say _some of us_ – “are starting to wonder if the Government is doing as much as it says it is. Some of the Rebuilding efforts seem to be going quite slowly, aren’t they?”

“Well…” she starts but he doesn’t let her finish her train of thought.

“Especially considering the vast amounts of money our friends, and you too I’m sure, have donated to the current Government to help with the Rebuilding effort. We can’t really fault, ah, our friends for wondering where their money is going now, can we?”

She doesn’t answer but frowns and he sees her smile tightening.

“Of course,” he adds, “all of this stays between us. I wouldn’t want anyone to get into trouble for being careful about what happens to their financial support.”

“Of course,” Mrs Howell laughs albeit dejectedly, “of course it’ll stay between us, dear. I have to… I have to go speak to Mr Howell, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I should go find Louis too,” he answers, smiling to himself.

He takes a minute to refill his own flute of champagne and survey the room. Everything still seems to be going well, various groups of people chatting and laughing. With the background jazz music, this scene could almost take place in any period of time. There’s something timeless about the way people of power all come together and spend hours eyeing each other critically, assessing their acquaintances as they would an enemy. There’s something almost cruel about the vision - the easiness with which these people manage to forget about the war, despite where the party is taking place, despite who’s hosting it. Maybe, one day, it’ll be easy for Harry and Louis to forget too, instead of the war being this thing that surrounds them and follows them everywhere they go.

They’ve tried to the best of their abilities not to let themselves be defined by the things that they did and the things that had been done to them in the name of winning. They’ve even tried to make something good out of it, to take this experience, that had been without a doubt the most terrible time of their lives, and to turn it into something they could, maybe, be proud of. Harry’s exhibitions, what Winston had derisively called “educating London’s art sphere”, and Louis’ conferences were nothing else but a way to say that they had not only survived, but learnt from what had happened to them. 

There are days, though, days like today when it seems that whatever Harry does he can’t help but be reminded of it. It’s a bit like drowning.

He doesn't stay alone with his thoughts for long but the distraction, for once, is welcome. People keep coming to him, complimenting him on the flat, on the party – the food, the drinks, the flowers. He smiles in return and tries testing the waters, tries seeing who is receptive to the undermining work they’ve started doing and who won’t be so easily swayed. He’s just finished talking to a couple he knows has donated important amounts of money to the Government when someone he doesn’t recognise approaches him.

“You certainly seem concerned with your guests’ finances,” a woman tells him. The faces of all the people he’s had to talk to tonight are starting to blend together, but Harry is pretty sure she wasn’t on the guest list.

“Do we know each other?” he asks, trying to quench a sudden rush of anxiety.

“I’m a friend of Ambassador Corden,” the woman replies, smiling. “He was kind enough to take me as his date since Julia couldn’t come with him tonight. He thought I might benefit from speaking with you.”

Harry smiles, his anxiety subsiding, and offers his hand, “Harry Styles. Nice to meet you.”

“Lily,” she answers, shaking it firmly. “Nice to meet you too. And don’t worry,” she laughs, “I don’t think anyone else has noticed what you’ve been doing. I’ve been kind of keeping an eye on you all night,” she adds, without a hint of bashfulness.

“Oh?”

“Let’s say I’m as invested as you are in where the donated money is going. See, I run an orphanage. One dedicated to war orphans.”

“I understand,” Harry answers. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Her smile widens.

***

So, the dinner party is a success. That is, until his boys arrive.

They’re all gathered in a corner of the living room and despite the easy conversation flowing between the five of them Harry can tell that something is off. Something he wouldn’t be able to put into words, something he has never paid attention to before, a sense of closeness, maybe, or an ability to be together seamlessly, isn’t there anymore. Instead, there’s an underlying current of tension.

It’s not hard to pinpoint where it’s coming from. Harry has seen Zayn’s sour expression before, the way with which he makes his discontent clear, yet he has never seen it aimed at Louis and him. And he can’t blame Zayn. It’s one thing to decide to lie for what you believe is something bigger and greater than you, something that will help an incalculable number of people, one thing to lie to those you believe are in the wrong even though those lines have been blurred a long time ago. But it’s quite another to lie to someone who’s seen you at your worst, who’s seen you crying and doubting and still kept by your side.

Harry can see it coming, the breaking point, the moment where lying stops being something they do without any repercussion. It doesn’t make it any easier to live through when it happens.

“Ah,” Simon exclaims, coming towards them and speaking loud enough to draw the party’s attention, “my crew of fighters. How about we take a picture now that we’re all here?” He slides one arm around Louis’ shoulders and Louis’ smile tightens a bit, but doesn’t fall.

It’s as if all eyes in the room are watching them. 

“Why not?” Louis replies. “Boys?” he asks, not looking at them, eyes fixed on Zayn. There’s something in his expression that Harry hasn’t seen often, something like quiet begging.

Niall and Liam start getting into position next to Louis but Zayn stays right where he is, seemingly torn. It only lasts a few seconds before he says,

“I’m sorry. I can’t…”

And then he’s gone. He disappears in the crowd and it’s just the four of them and Simon. Such a little thing, a few words, a whispered _I can’t_ , and there it is. The knowledge that they’re not fighting on the same side anymore.

“Well,” Simon laughs as if it’s no matter, “I guess we don’t need him. Let’s take this picture, yeah?”

What happens after is kind of a blur. There are flashes – and Harry couldn’t tell who took the picture which he knows will somehow end up being plastered everywhere in the city – and then there is Louis’ voice in his ear muttering “I’m gonna go find him” and he’s left alone with Niall and Liam.

“I need to,” he starts. Stops. “I’ll go find Louis.” He doesn’t wait for an answer or to look at their faces, just takes off in direction of the bedrooms. Louis and Zayn would want to have privacy for this talk.

It’s not hard to find them; the door of one of the guest bedrooms is ajar, light coming through the slight opening. Making his presence known would be the right thing to do but it would also mean putting an end to the conversation occurring. So Harry stays hidden, trying to ignore the sounds coming from the living room to focus on the faint noises coming from behind the door.

“You know that those people didn’t want me to be at the Ceremony, you know that there’s something wrong going on here.” Zayn’s tone is harsh and accusatory. Harry flinches.

“We’re just trying to help,” Louis replies. “Please, Zayn.”

“I can’t… Fuck, Louis, do you trust this man? Do you trust those people?”

“That’s not the question though, is it?” Silence. Then, “The question is, do you trust us? Do you trust me?”

“That’s not fucking fair, Lou.” There’s something unforgiving in the way Zayn says it and Harry wishes he could stop this from happening. He doesn’t move.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand, Lou.”

“I know that. I’m asking you to trust me on this, I can’t… I can’t explain right now but please trust me.”

“Those people hate me,” Zayn replies, and his voice is so low now it’s almost a murmur. “This is not what I… what we fought for. And if that’s changed, if you’ve changed your mind about that it’s your right. But don’t ask me to accept it without any explanation. I deserve better than that.”

Louis doesn’t answer and that seems to be it. The door opens and Harry takes a step back, not bothering to hide what he was doing. Zayn’s gaze is searching and Harry doesn’t know what he’s looking for on Harry’s face but he seems to have found it, because he only nods curtly and starts heading back toward the living room.

Harry follows him and, just before they reach the living room,

“If you’re gonna leave, can you please do it discreetly? We’ve worked hard on this party.”

“Sure,” Zayn answers, his flat voice somewhat worse than his previous indignant tone. “You don’t have to worry about me making a scandal.”

“Thank you,” Harry answers. He ignores the shame rising in his chest at what he’s just asked. Keeps his expression collected. 

Zayn steps out in the main room, joined by Liam and Niall. Niall turns around, sending an apologetic look to Harry who answers with a nod. He watches them disappear into the lift and closes his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again.  

He goes back to the party. 

***

Their guests have all long left when Harry joins Louis on the terrace. He’s leaning against the railing, glass of what looks like scotch nestled in a dainty hand. In the night, his body seems to be forming one long yet curvy line. There’s something incredibly pure about it, which almost brings Harry to tears.

“I’ll finish cleaning tomorrow,” Harry says. He’s not sure if Louis wants to talk about what happened or not so he just comes to stand next to Louis and waits.

“I’ll help you,” Louis offers and Harry recognises the answer for what it is.

The night is chillier than it was the last time they did this, after the press conference, like autumn is finally starting to settle on the city.

“You’ve never told me how it ends,” Louis eventually says.

“How what ends?”

“The story. The French play you talked to me about.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “That’s true. Do you want to know?”

“Yes please.”

“He dies. Lorenzino, the hero. He’s assassinated.”

“That’s what I thought,” Louis whispers and there’s something in his voice that almost breaks Harry’s heart.

“He’ll come around, you know,” he tells Louis because it’s the only thing he can give him. Some kind of reassurance.

“I know,” Louis laughs harshly. “I know that. It’s just the way he looked at me, you know? Like... Like I had betrayed him. Like _I_ was the one who wanted him out of the country.”

“I’m sorry, Lou.”

“Do you think -- Do you think it was too much to believe that they would somehow support us unconditionally?”

“Yes,” Harry answers, truthful but not unkind. “I don’t think it’s fair to ask this from them when they don’t know what we’re really doing.” He doesn’t say that, had their roles been reversed, had he been the one standing with Louis in this guest room, hurt and unable to understand what Louis was doing, he would still have trusted him. It doesn’t seem fair either. “It doesn’t erase the hurt, though,” he adds.

“No,” Louis says. “It doesn’t.” He sighs then, more thoughtfully, “He once told me… Zayn. Zayn once told me that it was always you and me, ever since we met. It was when we had just arrived at the Factory. And the way he said it… It wasn’t envious. He made it seem lonely.”

“Does it feel lonely?” Harry asks.

“No. Or, at least, it didn’t use to. Maybe it’ll be different from now on.”

Harry looks at the sky almost devoid of any stars. He takes Louis’ hand in his and doesn’t let go.

***

It’s not that things fundamentally change after the dinner party, but there’s something that wasn’t there before, a new kind of awareness that settles between them and doesn’t leave them. They’re not playing at being spies anymore; buoyant and confident in the knowledge that they’re doing the right thing: they are spies. They’re liars and the first casualty is Zayn’s friendship. 

Louis busies himself writing his book and spends hours in the library that he has turned into his office. When he’s not in it, he’s with Simon. Harry has long stopped questioning it. 

And it’s fine. Losing himself in his work is Louis’ way of grieving for something that may get to be repaired later on but that is, for now, lost to him. There’s no right way to mourn and if time and work are what Louis needs, Harry will do anything in his power to give it to him.

He tries not to pay too much attention to the fact that, most nights, he goes to bed alone and that he’s still alone when he wakes up. Sometimes, the sheets on the other side of the bed are undone, the warmth of Louis’ body still lingering. If Harry spends a few minutes on Louis’ side, trying to grasp for something he’s not sure how to put into words, it doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes Harry wakes up to see that the sheets on the other side of the bed haven’t been touched during the night. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell which option he hates the most.

Instead of dwelling on it, Harry decides to keep himself busy too. He creates a routine for himself. There’s something easy about repetition, something that helps him create order in his life, that helps him feel anchored instead of drifting, weightless. It’s what he did when, after the Riots ended, the Government came into power and every day he had his freedom still intact felt like the greatest kind of victory. It’s what he did when Louis went on missions every day at the Factory and Harry refused to spend his time waiting anymore, wondering if Louis would ever come back to him.

So, he starts his days with swimming. He finds satisfaction in the repetitive motions, in the way the water is a weight that he has to go against, that always threatens to overwhelm his body, fragile and human as it is, yet that allows him to defy gravity, to lift his body from the ground and, for an hour, forget its limitations. There’s a paradox to swimming that pleases Harry. Harry is okay with things that are impossible, that don’t seem to make sense. He is, after all, in love with Louis.

When he’s done swimming, when his body aches to the point of exhaustion, Harry doesn’t get out of the pool quite yet. He stays underwater, breathing through his mouth, trying to see how long he can last. For a few minutes he doesn’t think about anything, about the war and the past, about the months that they still have to go through before this all ends, about what will happen after – whether they win or not. There’s only this, his body engulfed by the water, by something bigger and stronger than him. When he gets back to the surface and takes a deep breath of fresh air, New York’s sky above him, he’s ready to start his day.

Harry hadn’t lied when he’d said that he didn’t have any exhibition or anything planned. He makes the effort of calling a few clients who used to live in New York to enquire if they have some work for him, but most of his days are spent wandering around the city, trying to relearn it, its shape and its smell and all the ways in which it has changed. There are quite a few.

Back in the spring, it had felt like the city was bristling with life again, that it was almost back to its former self. In a way, it’s true. The central areas are full of people, during the day, at least, but it doesn’t escape Harry’s gaze that many of the buildings are still unoccupied, and, as soon as he leaves the busiest areas, the illusion of life shatters. There are entire parts of the city that are still deserted, as they used to be during the war, and left to a slow decay. The only difference is that the people Harry encounters during his walks don’t look at him with suspicion and unease, don’t try gathering from what he’s wearing and the way he’s walking, if he’s a Government agent.

Harry doesn’t let his mind linger on the irony.

On a bright day, he decides to fulfil the promise he made during the dinner party and go visit Lily’s orphanage. He walks through Brooklyn, avoiding the places he knows best and ends up in front of a building that doesn’t look like much. He knocks, once, and waits. After a few minutes, the door opens on a little girl who can’t be more than six. Harry tries peering inside the hallway to see if Lily is there but is only met with darkness.

“Hi,” he says, crouching in front of the little girl. “I’m Harry. What’s your name?”

There’s no answer. She frowns and looks at him curiously before raising one hand to tug at his curls. He laughs and tries again,

“Can you at least tell me where I can find Lily?”

She shakes her head and doesn’t move. He’s starting to think that maybe he should come back later, after calling, this time, when Lily appears in the doorway.

“Hi!” she exclaims. “Harry, what a nice surprise. And I see that you’ve met Mae.”

“Is that your name?” Harry says looking at the little girl. “Nice to meet you Mae.” When there’s still no answer, he turns an enquiring gaze toward Lily.

“She’s a bit shy,” Lily answers. “We don’t get many visitors here. Come on,” she adds, offering a hand to Mae. “Let’s go back inside, they’re waiting for you to start the game.”

Mae takes her hand and Harry gets back up to follow them through the corridor into a narrow courtyard at the back of the building. There, a dozen kids of various ages are playing, and Mae lets go of Lily’ hand to join them. She doesn’t say a word but her face brightens.

“I’m sorry,” Lily says. “I’d usually offer you to join me in my office but we’re sort of short on staff today. And by that, I mean I’m the only one here to watch them.”

“It’s fine,” Harry offers. “I don’t mind.”

“D’you have any kids? James didn’t tell.”

“No,” he answers. “We don't.” Then, before she can question him further, “So, what can I do for you? You were rather vague the other day.”

“Well, as you can see we’re short on everything. Short on space, short on staff, short on money. I try doing as much as I can by myself and being friends with James helps me get the occasional donation, but it’s not enough. What we lack the most, though, is visibility.”

“I see,” Harry answers. “So you want me to..?”

“Be the face of the orphanage?” she laughs. “I don’t know, I thought it might be a good idea. James said that you probably had some spare time on your hands and what’s better for an orphanage for war orphans than getting a war hero to help?”

Harry frowns. “But aren’t you concerned about, uh, the impact my political involvement might have on the orphanage?”

She sighs before saying, “Look. My job requires me to understand politics and also be, something of a politician at times. But, to be quite honest, I don’t give a fuck about politics. I don’t care who wins the New Elections. What I need is money to keep these kids safe and fed. I think that you can help me with that, can’t you?”

“Of course,” Harry answers, looking back at the children still playing. “I’ll do what I can to help. Can I ask how you started this orphanage?”  

“Oh,” she laughs, tone lighter now that the less pleasant part of the conversation is out of the way. “It was an accident. Mae was the first one. I stumbled upon her while I was taking a stroll, one night, and I couldn’t leave her alone, could I? So I took her home with me and I guess I just didn’t stop there.”

“Were you already living here?”

“No, we moved into this house something like six months ago, I think? My flat was nice but not nice enough that I could make it into a real orphanage.” She smiles ruefully, “they didn’t tell you about that, did they?”

He’s not sure who “they” are supposed to be so he shrugs, ashamed of his ignorance.

“It’s okay,” she reassures him. “The problem of the war orphans is one of those topics no one talks about. Although I haven’t been able to determine if it’s because no one cares or because it would look bad when it comes to the Government’s so-called “Rebuilding Efforts.”

“Are there… Are there many kids still on the streets?”

“Quite a few, yeah. We don’t know the exact numbers and, like I said, no one has bothered finding out. But what I’m doing here isn’t helping with the problem. It’s just a start. A good one, though, I hope.”

“Right,” he answers.

“Don’t blame yourself,” she says. “You saw what they wanted you to see. They gave you a brand new flat and told you that yes, there were problems, but nothing winning the New Elections, no matter which side will, couldn't change, is that right?”

It is.

“Well, now you know,” she says, as if that settles it. “Come on,” she adds, grabbing his arm. “If you’re going to be helping me I have to introduce you to the kids.”

So Harry lets himself be led to the centre of the courtyard. Lily introduces him and the kids are all lovely, even though Mae still doesn’t talk to him. He plays with them, for a time, before he has to make his excuses and go back home. He promises to come back on a day Lily will be more available so they can discuss how he can help with the orphanage.  

He goes back to the flat, lighter than he has been since the dinner party happened, as if having a new sense of purpose will somehow help him get out of this weird state he’s found himself in ever since. Finding that Louis is already there, waiting for him on the sofa, two bottles of beer in front of him only improves his mood. He settles down next to him and presses a light kiss on his cheek before grabbing the still full bottle.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“It was okay,” Louis shrugs, exhaustion bleeding through his voice. “What about yours? You seem… different,” he says, gaze searching.

Harry launches himself into a retelling of his day, talking about the orphans and the mystery that’s Mae, about the half-formed plans he came up with during his walk back home to help with the orphanage, about the shame he felt when he realised that they had been completely oblivious to the issue. At some point during his speech Louis lies down, resting his head against Harry’s thighs and Harry moves to accommodate him, still talking, one hand playing with Louis’ hair. 

When Harry stops speaking and looks down at Louis, it’s to see that he’s fallen asleep. He slides his legs away from under Louis’ head and sits down on the floor, one arm resting on the sofa, the other on Louis’ chest, his hand pressed where he can feel Louis’ heart beating. It’s peaceful and there’s something warm throbbing inside Harry’s ribcage, something like infinite tenderness.

“I will love you,” Harry says in a voice so low he knows that even if Louis were awake he wouldn’t be able to hear him, like a prayer, like an act of faith, “until there’s no part of you left for me to love. And probably even after that.”

Then, without making a sound, he gets up from his spot on the floor and curls himself on the space available on the sofa, head touching Louis’ and feet on the opposite end of Louis’ body. The position is uncomfortable and he’s a bit cold but he doesn’t care, can’t stomach the idea of spending another night alone in a big empty bed that was never truly theirs, let alone his.

It’s the most restful sleep he’s had in a while.

***

Harry wakes up to find that they’ve moved during the night. His body is now stretched across the sofa, Louis curled against his side, head somehow resting in the crook of Harry’s neck. The fact that they’ve managed to end up like this without falling or being woken up in discomfort is nothing short of a miracle. Then again, they’ve had ample practice at fitting together in tiny spaces and falling asleep there.

“Good morning,” Louis whispers, pressing a soft kiss against Harry’s neck. “Did I fall asleep yesterday?”

“You did, yeah,” Harry answers, disentangling one arm to slide it around Louis, his fingers searching for a patch of naked skin to caress. They settle on Louis’ lower back.

“I’m sorry, love. I just feel exhausted all the time.”

“I know,” Harry says. “It’s fine.”

It’s not but the reasons why are so numerous and complicated that Harry can’t even begin to untangle them in his head. Now is not the time. The sunlight coming through the wide windows is illuminating the room and, with Louis pressed against him, it’s hard to be anything but content.

Louis squirms a little and manages to get his body on top of Harry’s, head still against Harry’s neck but their torsos now aligned, his legs resting between Harry’s slightly opened ones. He lifts his head to kiss Harry’s mouth before frowning,

“Morning breath, sorry.”

“I don’t care,” Harry replies – and he doesn’t. He has Louis in his arms for the first time in what feels like forever and he’s intent on taking advantage of every second, doesn’t know how soon the opportunity will arise again. “I don’t care,” he repeats. A bit more breathless, “please kiss me. For real.”

Louis lets out a small laugh but complies, and when he does, when his mouth meets Harry’s already opened one, their tongues touch lightly as if they’ve somehow forgotten how to do this.  There’s something quietly desperate about it. It’s in the tentativeness of the kiss, its gentleness.

“You should take the day off,” Harry says, breaking the kiss. 

“I can’t,” Louis says, closing his eyes like it pains him to look at Harry in this moment. “There’s a meeting.”

“Please? I…” Harry starts before breaking off.  He wishes for a few seconds that they were a couple that fought, Louis and him. That had epic arguments and even more epic reconciliations. Then, maybe, he would know what to do with the uncertainty of their situation, would know the words that need to be said. Maybe this whole thing would be easier. “Just today,” he says. “Just once.”

“Yeah,” Louis whispers. “Yeah, okay.”

A rush of relief surges through Harry and he starts kissing Louis again, less gentle, like now that he knows Louis is going to stay, that he’s not going anywhere, he can let go of whatever was holding him back. It’s heady to have Louis’ body against his, the warmth of his skin almost burning under his hands, to see how they fit together. He wants more. Wants Louis to be naked, completely naked on top of him.

He pushes Louis back so that he’s now sitting on top of Harry rather than lying on him and lets his hands slide down Louis’ back to come rest against his bum. He pushes the joggers Louis fell asleep in to mid-thighs. He’s not wearing any pants and his cock bobs, curving slightly against his belly. It dawns on Harry that they’re in the living room and not in their bedroom and he huffs a laugh.

“What is it?” Louis asks.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just glad the terrace is private. We’re quite the view.”

“Well,” Louis replies, smiling in understanding, “I’d like to think that my arse is a better view than New York’s skyline.”

Harry rests his head against Louis’ thigh, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. The heaviness they were almost drowning in a few minutes ago has disappeared, replaced by a playful, almost carefree, mood.

“Please, don't make me laugh when I’m about to give you a blow job.”

“I’m not the one who started it,” Louis huffs.

“Oh god.”

“This is,” Louis says somewhat haughtily, “without doubt the most undignified position I’ve ever found myself in.”

Harry detaches his head from where it’s resting against Louis’ thigh and looks at him. Louis is kneeling above Harry, joggers still stuck around his thighs, arms crossed and,

“You’re still hard,” Harry points out.

“Yeah,” Louis answers. “Guess I still am.”

“Well then,” Harry says and it’s pretty much the last thing he says for a while.

It doesn’t solve anything but, then again, maybe there isn’t anything to be solved. It’s easy, though. Easy and familiar, an effortlessly won kind of intimacy and that’s what Harry wants, right now. To be as close to Louis as he possibly can.

With his hands on Louis’ thighs, able to feel the strength of Louis’ body under his palms, with the noises Louis is making, almost too loud in the silence permeating their flat, he forgets about the uncertainty that never leaves him these days. The sensation that their entire world could crumble under their feet in a matter of seconds if they said or did the wrong thing.

He gives himself over to the physical reassurance, utterly.

It’s a nice morning.

***

(Later, Harry will cook breakfast for the two of them, the light of a late morning spreading through the kitchen, and it will be a bit like it was during the war. Except – Louis will come stand behind him, will press a kiss against the nape of his neck, will whisper _I’m so in love with you_ , and Harry’s breath will hitch.

Later, they’ll be sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen table, their legs pressed together, and Louis will say, _I think we were right about Simon. He wants something from me_. Harry will nod and not so subtly change the conversation topic.

Things won’t come back to how they were before the dinner party, but they’ll settle, as things tend to do, finding a new kind of equilibrium.

Harry will think that it’s going to be fine.)


	4. 3.

3.

« Spies feel like they know something important. »

Richard Siken, “Landscape with black coats in the snow” in  _War of the foxes_.

 

“Hello,” a small voice greets Harry when he opens the door of the orphanage. It’s Mae.

“Oh,” he says, trying not to let his surprise show. “And hello to you too,” he answers, crouching down so that they’re face to face. “Are you speaking to me today?” he adds in a gentle tone and hopes that it won’t frighten her.

She shrugs in reply and, right. Harry’ll take what he can get and this “hello” is definitely progress compared to the utter silence of his first visit. 

“Do you know where Lily is?”

Mae nods in the direction of the kitchen before turning around and running down the corridor toward the courtyard. She’s on the verge of disappearing from his sight when the sound of a bright, “Bye, Harry!” and a joyous laugh travel toward him.

He smiles to himself, getting back up, and follows Mae’s indication. In the kitchen, Lily is standing in front of what looks like half a dozen different stoves, hair in disarray and expression exhausted. 

“Hey,” Harry says quietly, so as not to startle her. “D’you need any help?”

“Oh, hi Harry,” she answers, eyes trained on the stoves. “And no, thank you. I’ve got this. Can you wait a few minutes?”

“Sure,” Harry replies, sitting down on a stool. “Where are the children?”

“Playing outside.” It’s a bit too cold to be outside for Harry’s taste but children aren’t as fazed by such small things like the weather as adults are. “Your key is working well, I see?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, “thank you for that. Mae was there to greet me, though.”

“Was she?”

“Mhmm. Even said hello to me.”

“Now that’s a surprise,” Lily smiles, turning to look at Harry. “And you’re still alive to tell the tale?”

“As you can see,” Harry answers, opening his arms wide to emphasize his point. “Although, I did almost die of shock.” Lily laughs but doesn’t answer, rummaging through the cupboards and starting to pile up plates on a small surface devoid of clutter. “Is she all right? It’s a good thing, right, that she spoke to me?”

“Oh yes, it is. She can definitely handle seeing people other than me and the occasional helpful friend. They all can.”

“Right,” Harry says. The other children haven’t been as hard to talk to as Mae, but they are all still somewhat cautious when it comes to Harry. Not that he blames them. In a way, their experiences are much closer to Harry’s own than those of the people he’s supposed to get close to. Or like, maintain friendly relationships with. _You can be good_ _for them_ , Louis had told him the morning after his first visit to the orphanage, and Harry is trying to.    

“Was there something you wanted?” Lily asks after a moment of silence. She’s emptying the contents of the stoves - pancakes, or maybe crêpes - onto the plates, creating a fascinating back and forth from one side of the kitchen to the other. “I don’t remember one of your visits being scheduled for today.”

“Ah, yes,” Harry starts. “I’m sure you, uh, appreciate me helping you from time to time but I’ve been thinking about what you said. How you wanted me to help you raise money for this place.”

“Yes?”

“There’s gonna be an inaugural ceremony for the memorial of the Factory soon, I don’t know if you’ve heard about it?”

“I have.”

“Right, well. I’ve been invited to it, with Louis. He was asked to give a speech. And I was thinking that maybe you could come? I can put you on the list.”

“I see,” she answers, a careful smile spreading across her face, making her look years younger. “That could be a good thing, yeah.”

“Right,” Harry repeats. “A lot of the people invited are former residents of the Factory. They… they know about war. About how it was like for us back then. I thought that maybe you would have an easier time convincing them to help you than you had with the people at the dinner party?”  

“That’s,” she lets out a small laugh and it’s sort of disbelieving, “a great idea. Thank you for thinking about it. And yes, put my name on that list.”

“Good,” Harry says, relieved. He had been hesitant to present her with this idea, unsure that it would be a good one. Despite what Lily has told him about the importance she attaches to politics there’s still something, well, dangerous about linking her name to his in such a public manner. “Are you sure you don’t need any help?” he asks, watching her balance three different plates on one arm.

“Actually,” she answers, nodding in the direction of the remaining plates “could you help me bring some of those in the dining room?  You’re staying with us for dinner, right?”

“Sure,” Harry replies. He tries mimicking the way she did it before deciding that he’ll do it the normal way, carrying only two plates, one in each hand. “If there’s enough for me?”

“Don’t worry,” she throws over her shoulder, already moving towards the dining room, “I’ve made enough for a good fifty people. And who knows? Maybe you’ll be graced with the sound of Mae’s voice again.”

Harry huffs a laugh and follows her. “Yeah,” he echoes. “Maybe.”  

***

Harry opens the door of the library to find Louis staring at his laptop. The curtains are drawn and the room dimly lit. It’s not a breach of privacy as the library has never been declared as being off limits, but it’s still Louis’ domain and Harry wouldn’t dream of taking it away from him.

“Am I interrupting something?” Harry asks in a quiet voice.

“No,” Louis answers, just as quietly. The exhaustion in his tone almost makes Harry flinch. He closes the door behind him and takes a few steps inside the room. The wall facing Louis’ desk is covered with half empty shelves, the only books on them some Harry had taken with them from London. Like the rest of the flat it looks expensive, tasteful and barely lived in. As if they’d just arrived the day before and were still unpacking.

Harry has never minded much that there is so little they care for and need, but in the light of the vastness of their flat, it suddenly seems like they’ve been living like ghosts for years. Never accumulating much, always ready to pack, always thinking that what they have is temporary, that it will be taken from them soon, one way or another.

“Were you working on your book?” he asks, sitting down in a small armchair, tucked in a corner of the room. 

“Tried to but it wasn’t going anywhere. I was going to start working on the Factory speech.”

“Oh, do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Louis says. “Please don’t. Maybe talking to you will help me get past my writer’s block.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums, folding his legs so that he can rest his chin on his knees. “What’s the problem?”

“Well,” Louis shrugs, looking down at his lap. According to the tiny motions his shoulders are making, his hands, hidden from Harry’s view, must be getting restless, playing with the material of his jeans, maybe, or his fingers just tapping nervously against his thighs. Harry could get up and catch Louis’ hands, envelop them with his and bring, for a few moments, a semblance of peace to Louis, but it would almost be like cheating. “It’s kind of hard to write a story when you don’t know how it ends.”

“Don’t you?” Harry’s surprise shows in his tone.

“I used to think I did. And I think I still know how I want it to end. But I’m not sure I know how it does, anymore.”

“It’s not the same story, though,” Harry says, because he’s beginning to understand what Louis is trying to tell him. _We’re still living it_.

“Isn’t it?”

“I think,” and he’s trying really hard to ignore the lump in his throat, “that you’re the writer. And you’re the only one who can choose when to end your story. And how.”

“So,” Louis says, still looking down, with so much tenderness in his voice it’s almost suffocating. “How should I end it?”

“Happily,” Harry murmurs. “If you have to end it, then it should have the happiest ending imaginable.” Then he gets up and closes the distance that separates them. It’s a short one yet it feels like one of the hardest thing he’s ever done. He’s not sure what he’s trying to accomplish, but he reaches Louis and cups his face in his hands. “Lou?” he pleads, “Please look at me.”

Louis does and his eyes are incredibly blue and Harry’s glad that, between the two of them, he’s not the one who writes stuff because it would probably end up being nonsensical odes to Louis’ eyes, or how he wishes for them to live happily forever, or how he wants to be close to Louis, always so close to Louis. Maybe Louis would like it and it wouldn’t be so bad.

“I told you once, a long time ago, that I would become a fugitive with you if that’s what you wanted. The offer still stands.”

Louis laughs at that, soft and joyous, and his eyes crinkle at the corners and God. It can’t get any better than this. Harry presses a kiss against Louis’ temple, and another one against the corner of his left eye, and another one on his cheekbone, the delicate architecture of Louis’ face resting between the palms of his hands like the most precious thing he’s ever held. He isn’t kneeling down at Louis’ feet but maybe he should, a way to convey adoration and faith in the only physical, tangible manner he can think of.

“It was a nice offer. Still is,” Louis says, turning his head so that he’s mouthing the words against Harry’s palm. “Maybe once this is over,” he adds, a hint of defeat in his tone that’s immediately sobering.

 “What is it?”

“I just never thought I’d have to think in those terms again, you know? Waiting for something to be over and organizing my life around this one big event. I thought it would be, I don’t know. Easier, probably.”

Harry sits down on the floor and lets his head rest against Louis’ desk, the hard wood under his skull a welcome weight to lean on. The optimistic side of him, the one that has faith in their ability to overcome any obstacle – because they’ve done it once already – wants to tell Louis that it will get easier, that every hour spent here brings them closer to an ending, to going back to what their life was before. Except, maybe that’s not a possibility anymore.

In a way, everything they’ve done since the end of the war has brought them right back to being in the middle of it all. Why had they been asked, or chosen, to do this?  Why them and not someone else? Maybe – and it’s not a pleasant thought – because, somehow, those who had asked had known they would accept. That, once confronted with the possibility of coming back, it would be impossible for them to say no. Maybe it shows-- this broken thing inside of them both, this hunger for doing more, for being more.

It would be easy, to blame it all on Louis. Because, perhaps Louis had wanted it a bit more, had still felt like he had more to prove, had been a bit more aware of the fact that they weren’t finished. It would be easy, if Harry was one to take the easier path, and quite unfair too. Truth is, Harry had also wanted to come back. Had been oh so ready to answer Louis, _yes. Let’s do it._ It was part duty; part thinking that they had to, and part something else. Wanting to leave a mark on the world in the most lasting way he could imagine. 

_I was there. This is what I did and this is who I was. Let me know that my life wasn’t lived in vain_.

Behind him, Louis moves, getting out of his chair and coming to sit down on the floor next to Harry, adopting a posture similar to his. It’s kind of ridiculous that they should choose to sit on the floor, like children, when there’s at least three other places designed for them to sit in this very room, but there’s something refreshing about it. Louis’ shoulder brushes against Harry’s, and their legs on the floor are aligned, two parallel lines almost disappearing in the shadows cast by the drawn curtains.

Does Louis feel as small as Harry does, in this moment, like it wouldn’t take much for the both of them to disappear without leaving a trace of their presence?  Would anyone miss them if they did? Harry tries calling his mother, when both of their schedules allow it, but he has no memory of the last time he spoke to Gem. The boys are another matter. Liam and Niall had both sent a text the morning after the dinner party, a way to let Harry and Louis know that the path they had chosen was the one of neutrality, but they haven’t come to visit since and it’s _fine_. They knew this could happen. Had even discussed it, in the middle of the night, weighed up the pros and cons, and had decided that it was worth it. Like every decision, this one was easier made in the dark of the night than carried through the harshness of the broad daylight.

They’re in the middle of it all, at the very centre of one of the most important political campaigns of the century, yet Harry has never felt so insignificant.

There are still a few things, though. There’s the orphanage, and the work Harry’s doing there, the way Mae greeted him when he was there the day before. She’s still so young, and maybe some people should be able to escape what has happened unscathed. She has enough time to forget, after all. It’s not a thought that makes him jealous, bitter what they couldn’t have was given to someone else. It’s one that makes him hopeful. There’s also the work Louis is doing daily, the one that seems to be exhausting him to the core yet may be what helps them win in the end.

And then there’s that. Winning. With all the weight the word encompasses, with all the vanity it carries.

“What are you thinking about?” Louis asks and, yes, Harry’s never actually answered him. He shifts, his shoulder pressing closer to Louis’ and says,

“Is everything okay? Like, with Simon. Is what you’re doing okay?”

Harry cares about winning but, most of all, he wants for them to get out of this as intact as they can, even if it’s looking more and more like a feeble dream. A distant utopia, maybe.

“It’s fine,” Louis shrugs. There’s something he isn’t quite telling Harry, but before Harry can decide whether he should push Louis or just let it go, he continues, “I’m just not sure what we’re against. And that’s hard for me. I’m used to knowing what I’m fighting against, you know? Like, even during the war it was pretty much straightforward. We wanted to bring the Government down because we knew that what it was doing was wrong. I’m not so sure that’s what we’re doing here.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not just one man, is it? It’s not just Simon, or even this group of awful people he has surrounding him. Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re terrible people and being around them is not a bloody picnic that’s for sure, but it’s not just them.” He sighs and Harry turns his head to look at him. Louis looks back, with an intensity that’s trying to convey how important this is. Harry nods in response, a silent way of telling Louis that he’s listening, that he’ll always listen. “It’s about consent too,” Louis goes on, tone turned meditative.  “They are in power because people voted for them. Not like the previous Government who just confiscated it. Who are we to say that they’re not right?”

“I think,” Harry says, “that we’re trying to offer them an alternative. Another choice. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There are some days where I’m just so fucking exhausted, Haz. And it has nothing to do with getting up at dawn and being with those people all day. It’s that I keep thinking about the New Elections and what will happen after and what if it’s not enough? What if we put ourselves out there, again, and this time it’s still not enough?”

_What if it never ends_?

Louis doesn’t say it like this but Harry hears it anyway.

“I guess,” he replies, “that if it happens, it’ll be to us to decide that it’s enough. That we’ve done enough.”

Louis inhales. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That we… That _I_ won’t know when to quit. I’m not sure I have the strength it requires.”

All of Harry’s reassurances die in his throat because he’s not sure either. It takes a special kind of will to turn away from something that calls to you and everything you are so strongly. Them being here again is proof enough of that.

“It’s fine,” Louis says, breaching the silence lingering between them. “You don’t have to reassure me all the time, Haz.”

_But what if I want to?_

“For what it’s worth, you’re the strongest person I know.”

“Thank you. Let’s… Let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s talk about something else.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Harry asks.

“Dunno. Tell me about one of your books?” Louis says, nodding in direction of the half empty shelves.  

So Harry does. He talks about Chekhov, _The Cherry Orchard_ , and people having to get away from their home, from what they love the most. He talks about Aeschylus’ tragedies, about the _Oresteia_ , about going back home only to find out that you have no home anymore, that people thirsty for blood and power have robbed it from you. He talks about Orestes, promising his sister that he would avenge their father, about him killing his own mother, about running away to find absolution.

He forgets to talk about what brought him to seek Louis in the first place and the copy of the magazine with their interview lays somewhere in the living room, discarded. 

It’s easy to get lost in stories that aren’t theirs, where the ending has already been written years, sometimes centuries, ago. To not think about the weight that’s settled permanently on their shoulders, and to let others be heroes. To enter worlds where morality and duty are abstract concepts and not something they have to consider every day. It’s easy and restful.

So, together, they do. 

***

When Harry enters the living room, the next morning, Louis is sitting on the sofa, reading the magazine with their interview. He’s frowning and something isn’t quite right, Harry is too attuned to Louis’ moods not to notice it right away. He still continues in the direction of the kitchen. Contrary to Louis, tea doesn’t cut it for him in the mornings and he needs a healthy dose of caffeine before he’s fully functional.

Once he has a cup of coffee in his hand, he makes his way back to Louis and settles next to him, tucking his feet beneath Louis’ thighs, his toes digging in the soft material of the sofa. He takes one sip before asking,

“What is it?”

“That’s not the draft we approved,” Louis replies immediately, as if he’s just been waiting for Harry to ask the question.

All thoughts about the respective powers of tea and coffee leave Harry. “It isn’t? Let me see, please.”

Louis passes the magazine on to him and Harry skims through it. It doesn’t take long to spot what Louis is talking about. If it weren’t for the pictures of the two of them posing through various rooms of their flat, it would be impossible to tell that Louis was there for the interview. It’s like every trace of his presence has been erased from it. Instead of him speaking about their story and how they met the words are now coming from Harry’s mouth. It’s about Harry’s plans for the future, Harry’s photographer career, Harry’s desires and dreams.

“I don’t understand,” he says, dumbfounded.

“I think I do. Let me call the interviewer, I still have her number, somewhere.”

Harry nods and starts reading the interview again, more closely this time.

_When asked about his future, Harry Styles smiles coyly and avoids answering our question. He reluctantly tells us that he has no plans when it comes to setting up an exhibition in New York, but his eyes seem to be telling us that he has a secret. What could that be? Political ambitions, maybe? “Right now”, he says, “I’m entirely dedicated to the current campaign and couldn’t be prouder of the work we’re doing. In the future? Well, who knows…”_

He doesn’t remember saying that.

“I don’t remember saying that,” he repeats, out loud.

“That’s because you didn’t,” Louis answers, coming back into the room. “I managed to get the interviewer on the phone. Said that she was very sorry but that the order came from above and she didn’t have much of a choice. Apparently, they thought that a feature about you only would sell more. From, like, a readership point of view. I think that’s how she put it.”

“But why? I thought that’s what they wanted. Us. Together.”

“Well, not anymore,” Louis huffs and there’s a hint of frustration in his voice that he suppresses immediately. “I’m sorry, I’m just… What a fucking low blow.”

“I still don’t get the purpose.”

“Don’t you?” Louis wonders. “They’re trying to separate us. Publicly, at least.”

“No,” Harry replies. “I get that. I just don’t understand what they’re expecting to gain from it. I’ve always thought that we were more useful to them together.”

“I’m not sure,” Louis sighs, sitting back down on the sofa. “Maybe it’s a preventive move, they think we’ll be easier to control that way. Maybe it’s a warning.”

“A warning?”

“A ‘don’t mess with us’ kind of thing. I…” his tone is hesitant, “I thought I was doing a good job, but maybe I’ve not been as discreet as I thought I was.”

“Do you think we should warn the Azoffs?” Harry asks.

“No,” Louis says. “Not now at least, not when we know so little. They’ll see the interview anyway,” he shrugs. “Let’s just wait and see what happens at the Factory memorial inauguration. That’s the next big thing.”   

“Right,” Harry says, putting the magazine down on the coffee table. “Still no news from the boys?”

“Oh, Niall told me he was coming. Not sure about Liam yet, but I doubt he would pass up the opportunity. He loves being a proper hero, after all.”

“Lou…”

“I’m sorry. That was unfair.”

It was. Looking at Louis, Harry can see how shaken he is, how the few things they’re both trying to hold on to are slipping through their fingers. They can still salvage things, they still have enough time to do it, but it’s looking more and more like they’re getting close to hitting a dead end. He’s seen it before, what Louis looks like at the breaking point, raw and open and ready to shatter. It’s not something he wishes to experience again.

_What if it never ends?_ Louis hadn’t asked, yet Harry had understood.

But it won’t even matter if they can’t get their act together and go through the three months they still have left until the New Elections. They’ve just reached the metaphorical half time in this game and are already falling apart.

Sometimes, it feels to Harry that they aren’t whole people. That they used to be, maybe, but are now made of thousands of tiny parts that they keep together by sheer strength of will. It would take so little for them to crumble.

They’re not going to. He can’t tell where it’s coming from, how the thought manages to break through the exhaustion he’s feeling even though he just woke up. It’s something deep and perhaps a bit wild, the instinct of a wounded animal that pushes it to attack, one last time. He thinks it, so suddenly, so fiercely, it surprises even himself. They won’t crumble.

He will continue to carry and hold together all the tiny pieces he’s made of and if Louis can’t do it anymore then Harry’ll carry his too.

More than a simple thought, though, it’s a promise to himself and to Louis. One he intends to carry out, whatever it takes.

***

“I can’t go out with just a suit on,” Louis declares, eyeing his reflection in the mirror of their bedroom. “I’ll fucking freeze to death.”

“You should wear your black trench,” Harry suggests, getting up from where he’s sitting on the bed to go find said trench in the dressing room. “I don’t know why you always forget about it, it’s perfect. Here,” he says, holding the coat out for Louis to take. “Let’s see how it looks.”

As Harry predicted, it’s perfect. The suit Louis is wearing is black with elegant, clean lines and emphasizes his slim figure. With the trench on, he looks every inch of the serious politician they want him to appear to be.

“I like it,” Louis says, still looking at himself with a wary eye. “Very, uh, spy-y.”

“That’s not a word,” Harry laughs, coming to stand behind Louis and encircling his waist with his arms. He rests his chin on Louis’ shoulder and the position is somewhat uncomfortable, but the warmth of Louis’ body pressed against his makes it worth it.

“Of course it is,” Louis replies. “You can add a “y” to any word and it’ll work. Like vibey.”   

“That's not a word either,” Harry says, aiming at stern but ending up close to laugher. “I’m glad we’ve never played scrabble together. You’d be horrid at it and would blame me for losing.”

“That is not how it’d go,” Louis huffs, but his voice is fond.

They’re stalling and they both know it but can’t bring themselves to put an end to the moment, to the quiet affection lingering between them.

“It’s fine,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t mind letting you win.” He tilts his head a little, breathing Louis in. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell what Louis smells like, only knows that it’s something he would recognize anywhere. “We should go,” he whispers against Louis’ neck. “The car must be waiting for us downstairs. Are you ready?”

“Of course,” Louis answers. “It’s just a speech.”

It’s not. Neither of them has been back to where the Factory used to stand since they came back to New York and neither of them has seen the boys since the dinner party.  It’s going to be weird, similar to measuring the distance between who they used to be and who they are now. Or, rather, who they’re pretending to be. It’s hard to tell when all the lines began to blur. Still, “Let’s go then.”

***

The building that stands where the Factory used to be is supposed to be an exact replica of it. Yet, when Harry lays his eyes on it for the first time, he can immediately spot dozens of little details that make it all wrong. It’s a bit too shiny and a bit too new, lacking the feeling of being on the verge of collapsing that the old building had always had. But it’s not been built for Harry’s approval.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” a voice says, next to him.

Harry turns his head to see a man who appears to be well into his forties looking proudly at the building.

“I guess it is, yeah,” he answers. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“The architect,” the man replies, beaming. “Allan Dickson. And let me tell you, rebuilding this thing was no small feat.”

“I... I can imagine,” Harry says. “Were you, uh, well acquainted with the old building?”

“Oh no!” he laughs. “I wasn’t there during the war, spent a few years travelling the world. You know how it goes.” Harry doesn’t, but refrains from telling him that.  “I did study the plans, though, and I had pictures of course. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Were you there during the war?”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Yes. I was.”

“Well,” Allan says, self-satisfaction etched on his features. “I think you’ll be surprised by the inside of the building. It’s even better than the outside!”

“I can’t wait,” Harry lies. And yes, it’s useless to go back to a place where you used to live, where – even if you didn’t particularly like being there – you learned all the nuances and colours that gave this place its identity, expecting for it to still be the same. That’s not how memory works; memory is faulty and fallible. It makes the past always seem brighter, more desirable, than it actually was.

But the building that’s standing in front of them, trying to pass for something it isn’t, for something that doesn’t exist anymore (and Harry was there, he saw the Factory being destroyed) is almost an insult. By erasing the Factory’s destruction it allows people to forget what happened here.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, “I should get going. The Speeches are going to start soon.”

“Oh?” Allan wonders. “Do you know one of the speakers?” He laughs. “I’m sorry, of course you must, if you were here during the war.”

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “My, uh, boyfriend. Louis Tomlinson. He’s giving the inaugural speech.” As soon as he’s done saying the words, recognition flickers across Allan’s face.

“Oh… Oh! You’re Harry Styles?”

“I am, yes.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognise you with your hair tied up,” and he sounds embarrassed now, like not recognising Harry right away is something someone should be ashamed of. “Your pictures were incredibly useful in helping me rebuild the Factory.” The way he says it conveys that Harry should be flattered. He isn’t.

And it’s a hard thing to pinpoint, the reason for Harry’s distaste, because they must be quite alike in their desire to capture something essential yet so hard to grasp, the most truthful version of reality possible. Maybe it’s their alikeness that’s making Harry so uncomfortable. That’s not what his pictures were meant to do, they weren’t meant to help build things that would allow people to forget what happened. They were taken so that people would remember. Except, maybe that’s not what they did at all. He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore his uneasiness, how being in front of this man is somehow akin to standing in front of a mirror you wish were a tad blurrier, so that all of your imperfections wouldn’t stand out so harshly.

Harry smiles and answers, “I’m glad I could help, even unknowingly.”

Allan laughs at that, patting Harry’s shoulder as if they’re old friends. “Thank you. And you were right, it’s probably time for us to go inside. This isn’t a party where being tastefully late is the thing to do.”

They make their way inside a tent that has been set up in front of the memorial. It’s big enough to fit the hundred people attending the inauguration, a mix between journalists, politicians and former residents of the Factory. There aren’t many faces Harry doesn’t recognise; he’s starting to know them all quite well. He takes a few minutes to say hello to Lily, who’s seated at the back of the tent. She appears to be at ease, eyeing the various guests and probably trying to decide which ones are most likely to be sensitive to her cause. She whispers ‘good luck’ to him as if he’s the one who’s going to need it.

Maybe he is, he thinks, taking a seat in his place in the front row, next to Liam and Niall. Their greeting is warm enough, but Harry can’t help but feel that something isn’t quite right. It could just be the unsettling feeling left by Zayn’s absence, how it stands out, even though there’s no seat saved for him, only one for when Louis is done. Or it could be that their gazes on him seem to have a weight they never used to, something cautious and evaluating. He wonders if they read the interview, if they believed what was said in it, if it’s _working._ There’s a kind of sick pleasure in imagining confronting them about it, in the idea of laying it all out on the table. Did they talk about it with Zayn? Did they share a knowing glance, something brief and furtive, an _I knew it_?

No. Of course they didn’t. They know him. 

He takes another deep breath. How many of those is he going to need before the day is over?

“Are you okay?” Niall asks, leaning toward him.

“Yes,” Harry answers, with as much honesty as he can muster. “Yes, of course. Just impatient for it to begin.”

“Right,” Niall replies, although he doesn’t seem convinced. He lets a moment of silence pass before adding, “I know it’s not the place for having a heart to heart but… You know that you can always talk to us, right?”

He doesn’t. Still, he appreciates Niall saying this more than he could ever tell him.  He’s about to thank him when the lights go out and the stage in front of them is illuminated by a white glow seemingly coming from within. “It’s starting,” he whispers instead, heart beating fast.

Niall gives him a warm smile and says, “Well, good luck to your man, then.”

Harry knows what Louis looks like, has seen him less than half an hour ago, yet his breath catches in his throat when Louis arrives on stage. There’s a tad of insecurity, of nervousness, in his demeanour, easily hidden from anyone who’s not Harry. He smiles brightly at the audience, as if he has to win them over. As if they’re not already supporting him.

“Hello,” he starts. “I’m glad to be here today to talk to you about this place and what it means to me, to a lot of us. I have to be honest,” and Harry starts mouthing the words in time with Louis. He knows them by heart, had helped Louis write some of the speech and rehearse it.  “I didn’t like this place much when I had to live here. To be fair,” he adds, drawing a laugh from the audience, “one could argue that it’s hard to like any place where a war is happening.

But tonight, I’ve decided to be honest with you.” And he has, a much as he can. “Which is why I’m telling you this, I almost didn’t come here. You see, my friends and I were our own operation long before we joined the Factory rebel group and it’s always hard, in times like those we lived through, to let go of that.  Of deciding for yourself. To choose to put your trust in someone else and actually trust them enough to know they’ll make the right decisions. Which doesn’t mean the easy ones. So, yeah. When the time came to let go of our independence, as individuals and as a group of five people, and join a much larger group, let me tell you that I put up a fight. Liam here remembers.” At that, the audience laughs again, Liam a bit louder than everybody else. On stage, Louis looks satisfied that he’s managed to create the exact feeling they were aiming for when they wrote the speech. _Go on_ , Harry thinks. Y _ou were made for this._

“I don’t regret losing this fight,” Louis says. “I’m not going to say that it wasn’t hard, because it was, or that I never doubted the decision we took, because I did, but we won. As you all know, the battle that took place here and destroyed the Factory, the building I knew, was instrumental in overthrowing the Government. So I’m glad that I had people around me I trusted enough to follow, and who brought me here, at the Factory. I’m glad that I trusted them enough to remain here and that, maybe, they trusted me enough to remain here with me.

You probably know who those people are, but just in case, let me remind you of them. I’m speaking, of course, about the one who was my comrade in arms during my time at the Factory, Len, who couldn’t be here today. I’m also speaking about Niall Horan, Liam Payne, and, another missing one, Zayn Malik.” Harry lets out a breath. The hard part is done. “And, of course, my partner, Harry Styles. I’m also thinking about Simon Cowell, who was, at the time, at the head of the Rebellion and made some of those hard decisions I mentioned earlier.”

“What I meant to tell you today,” and they’re getting close to the end now, “is that sometimes you find yourself in places you don’t like but, I guess, you learn to respect them. You learn to understand how important they are. You hope that people don’t forget them. Don’t forget what happened here, or why. Forgetting is an easy thing to do, something that happens to us subconsciously every day, even when we believe it won’t. We’re only humans, after all, and we need all the help we can to remember. Which is why I’m happy to conclude this speech, which, I hope, wasn’t too terrible to listen to, by welcoming you all to the inauguration of the memorial of the Factory. And I hope,” his voice quivers, “that those we lost here, those we fought with and laughed with, and loved, know that they are remembered. Thank you.” 

*** 

“How did I do?” Louis asks, taking the empty seat next to Harry once the applause has died down.

“It was perfect,” Harry replies. And it was. Listening to it, to those words Harry knew yet took another dimension when they were pronounced in front of an audience, almost helped him remember why they’re doing this. How it has a meaning.

“Thank you,” Louis answers. “Hey guys,” he adds, leaning forward to look at Niall and Liam, on the other side of Harry.

“Great speech!” Niall says.

“It truly was,” Liam confirms. “I appreciated the special mention,” he adds with a laugh but there’s something wistful about it and maybe Harry’s not the only one who needed help in remembering what the important things are.

They all fall into an easy silence, as the next speaker gets into place, the kind of silence that speaks of familiarity and trust. Harry takes Louis’ hand in his, entwining their fingers, a rather innocent gesture, yet that means so much to them both.

One more thing done.

He doesn’t pay much attention to the other Speeches. At some point, the architect comes out on stage and mentions Harry’s work but the uneasiness Harry couldn’t shake off earlier has deflated for the moment. Soon enough, it’s time for them to go pose for the official pictures of the event, a strange re-enactment of the dinner party scene. They go through the motions, putting on bright smiles when asked to. Despite everything that has happened, there was a time when this place was the only home they knew, and each other the only people they had.

Even with Niall and Liam next to him, Harry can’t seem to forget that he and Louis have lost something they’ll never be able to recover completely.

Harry is following the crowd out of the tent and into the new Factory building, when he’s stopped a few steps away from the entrance of the memorial by a man. He’s seen him somewhere else but isn’t able to pinpoint where.

“Hello,” the man greets him. “Very sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to answer some of my questions? I’m a journalist.”

“Oh,” Harry blurts out, realising where he’s seen him before. “You were at the press conference, right? Dan, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Dan answers, with an unsettling smile. “And yes, I was. I’m sure, ah, Simon would appreciate you answering me. I promise it won’t take long.”

And, well. Harry doesn’t seem to have much of a choice. “Of course.”

“Thank you. Now, very quickly, I’ve noticed that your partner, Louis, said that Zayn Malik, the fifth member of your... um, _group_...wasn’t able to make it here today. Could you tell me why?”  

“He was otherwise engaged,” Harry replies as smoothly as he can – which is not very. He stutters and his face must be betraying the discomfort this specific question rose in him. 

“I’m sure he was,” Dan answers, expression disbelieving. “Now,” he continues, “you’ve recently given an interview in a magazine?”

“Louis and I did, yes.”

“In it, you stated that you might have political ambitions. Could you elaborate for our readers?”

“I,” Harry starts. “I, um. I think my words might have been misconstrued.”

“So,” Dan replies and his expression is getting close to something feral now, like he’s realised he’s onto something. “You’re saying it’s not true?”

“I’m saying it’s all very hypothetical right now.” Harry wishes he could just get out of here. What would be worse? Being rude to someone who seems to be close to Simon, or continuing to answer questions he should be running away from?

“Right. One of my sources told me that you had dinner with the Azoffs, not long after you came back to New York. Without your partner,” and the way he spits the word makes Harry flinch. “The Azoffs are the Government’s biggest opposition in the current campaign. Does Louis know about this? How does he feel about it, when he’s been working so hard to help the Government win the Elections? Is there something you’re not telling us? Trouble in paradise, maybe?”

The onslaught of questions is so sudden and unexpected, even though Harry should have seen it coming from the very first one, should have made his excuses long before the situation escalated, that Harry is left breathless and gasping for air, unable to say a single word. 

“No answer?” Dan asks, almost rhetorically. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” He smiles, “Thank you very much Mr Styles for answering my questions. It was a pleasure.” And, just like that, Harry is alone again.

“Fuck,” he mutters, trying to calm down the frantic beating of his heart. His head is spinning and the first drops of rain are starting to splash onto his suit. “Fuck,” he repeats.   

“Harry?” a voice calls him, a voice he knows, seemingly coming from afar. He lifts his head to see Niall standing at the entrance of the Factory, protected from the rain by the porch. It’s pouring now and Harry has no idea how long he’s been standing there, if it’s only been a few seconds or minutes already. “Are you okay? Louis was searching for you. We all were.”

“I’m fine,” he says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He clears his throat and tries again, “Just taking a break, you know? I’ll be inside in a few.”

“Right. Well, if you wanna talk, my offer still stands. I’m here for you, yeah? The both of you.” Niall’s gaze is searching but Harry couldn’t tell what he’s seeing on Harry’s face, what Harry’s face even looks like. He feels blurry, like it wouldn’t take much for someone to just erase him from this world, like he could disappear into thin air at any given moment. He closes his eyes, knowing that there’s nothing he can answer Niall, and lets the fingers from his right hand go down his forearm in a slow motion to find his wrist under the fabric of his shirt and encircle it, touching the anchor he shouldn’t be able to feel yet seems to have acquired a physical weight.

He waits under the rain for his limbs to start feeling real again, for the sensations to come back to his body, mind blank. He doesn’t think about Niall’s offer, about the sheer impossibility of him, or Louis, telling him what’s wrong. When he opens his eyes again he’s in control of himself and Niall is gone.

He doesn’t hesitate and enters the Factory.

***

“I don’t think there’s much we can do, Haz” Louis says, trading his dress shirt for a warm jumper. And when did they become spectators of their own lives? “I know what you’re thinking,” he continues, blue eyes staring straight at Harry, unwavering in their honesty, “but I do believe that waiting is our best option right now.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees, lying down on the bed. The mattress dips under the weight of Louis sitting down next to him and small hands come to rest against Harry’s shoulders.

“Turn around,” Louis murmurs from somewhere above Harry’s head. Harry complies without protesting, burying his face in the pillows and letting Louis settle above his back. His hands return to Harry’s shoulders, kneading his sore muscles and Harry lets out a breathy whimper.

“That’s very nice.”

“Is it?” There’s a hint of laughter in Louis’ voice and Harry would turn around again to kiss it away if his position wasn’t so damn comfortable. Instead he just nods, as much as one can nod when engulfed by pillows. “Good,” Louis says. “Let’s not talk about this anymore.” And Harry can do that, if that’s what Louis wants. Can ignore everything that isn’t them, and this moment, and Louis’ warm hands against his skin, massaging his flesh and relieving his back from the tension that has been weighing down on him all day. Maybe even longer than that. 

“I didn’t like the new building,” he declares. “I think they should have done something else. If, like, they absolutely had to do something.”

“Hmm,” Louis acknowledges. “Like what? A statue?”

The image of a golden statue of Simon looking heroic and mighty bursts through Harry’s mind and he huffs a muffled laugh. “Maybe,” he answers. “Bet Simon would have liked a statue of him. Or maybe it should have been a statue of us.”

“Only if it’s covered in glitter.”

“It just didn’t… It didn’t feel right.”

“I know,” Louis says, his fingers tracing Harry’s spine before settling down on Harry’s lower back and starting to work there. “It wasn’t made for us,” he adds, echoing Harry’s earlier thoughts.

“If not for us, then for whom?”

“For those who weren’t there, I guess,” Louis replies. Then, “You know, this isn’t the casual conversation I had in mind.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles.

“Don’t,” Louis rebuts, stopping the massage to press a kiss at the top of Harry’s spine. “Don’t apologize to me, please.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “I won’t,” but it still sounds like an apology. Louis’ hands go back to work and Harry just – stops thinking and lets himself have it. This moment of warmth and quietness after a busy and exhausting day. This moment of peace or what peace must be like. Because it wasn’t peace, what they had in London. He’s able to articulate the thought now. He’s able to accept it instead of dismissing it as quickly as he can. It wasn’t peace.

It was a reprieve.


	5. 4.

4.

« We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other’s knowledge. »

Richard Siken, “Landscape with black coats in the snow” in  _War of the foxes_.

They wake up to an article claiming to be an exclusive interview with Harry. It’s not wrong, even though what happened during those few minutes Harry had spent with Dan between the tent and the memorial building couldn’t be further, in Harry’s mind, from an actual interview. The article itself is more or less a rehash of the magazine’s, with added claims that there is, indeed, trouble in paradise, and a short paragraph about Zayn’s mysterious absence at the bottom of it.

“It is what it is,” Louis sums up, before throwing the newspaper in the bin. “We’ll see if that’s all they can do,” he adds, in a harsher tone than Harry usually hears him use.

But nothing changes.

They don’t receive any news from the Azoffs, not even a text from their intermediary, and Simon doesn’t stop calling Louis to his side. When asked, Louis tells Harry that he doesn’t seem to have been getting more suspicious than usual and they both let it go.

If Harry were prone to making metaphors, he would say that they’re in the middle of a game of chess, waiting for the other player to make the next move. It’s a good thing he isn’t, though, because the metaphor would quickly fall apart. For one, there aren’t just two players, head to head, but a multiplicity of them. It’s not them against the Government, or even the Azoffs against the Government. It’s a tangled web of sometimes conflicting, sometimes diverging interests where alliances are precarious things that can change from day to day. It’s made quite clear to Harry when, one day, he receives a call from Mrs Howell asking if he can tell her more about his ‘old family friends’ and how they would put the money that has been donated to the Government to use, should they be elected a few months from now. Harry can, and gladly. They decide to have brunch.

Then, for their opponent to make the next move, Harry and Louis would have had to make a first one. Except they didn’t.

And that’s the thing, the one thing Harry can’t grasp his mind around, the equation he is unable to solve. Where did they go wrong? What was their mistake? 

At night, when Louis falls asleep before him or when he’s – less often now – left alone in bed, he stares at the ceiling and goes over everything they’ve said and done since they came back. And when that’s not enough, when he’s still unable to pinpoint the moment they failed, he starts again at the beginning, relentless.

“You’re going to drive yourself mad, Haz,” Louis whispers against his chest. Harry’s body is still loose and pliant from his orgasm, and, before, he would have started drifting to sleep, basking in the feeling of Louis’ body against his, of their entangled legs and their entwined fingers. He doesn’t.

There’s something in him, maybe, a hint of madness, that forces him to keep his eyes open, trained on the white ceiling above their bed, obsessing over the past few months.

There’s the day of their arrival in New York. The day they signed the contracts. The dinner with the Azoffs. The day of the press conference. The day of the interview. The dinner party. The afternoon he visited the orphanage for the first time. The day of the Factory memorial inauguration. (But it was before that, it must have been.) And all the days in between, all the hours and minutes, and the infinite nuances of every word uttered, of every gesture accomplished. It doesn’t take him long to review the entire thing, fast forwarding some of the events he’s already examined in detail and slowing down when it comes to others he’s left out the previous times.

“Just one more time and I’ll go to sleep. I promise, Lou.”

Louis sighs but doesn’t argue, just settles more comfortably against Harry’s chest. Inside of it, something clenches. Louis’ silence, his quiet acceptance of the things Harry has to do, speak louder than any declaration of love. Not that Harry doesn't like those.

So Louis goes to sleep and Harry stays awake, playing the careful game of trying to reorder what’s happened and then trying to discern the turning point. The elusive main event. And when his mind is exhausted to the point where none of it makes sense anymore and all the days begin to blur together, then and only then, does Harry close his eyes and wait for sleep to come, lulled by the rhythm of Louis’ even breaths.

*** 

Like most things in life, when it does happen it’s somehow both unsurprising and unexpected. Unsurprising because they had been waiting for something to give. Unexpected because, of all the ways it could have happened, Harry had never imagined that it would take this form, that it would be so cruel.

“Hey Haz,” Louis greets him when he enters the living room. “How... how was your day at the orphanage?”

He’s putting on a brave front but it’s of no use. Not when it comes to Harry at least. It’s in the way his tone is too frantic and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.  “What happened?” he asks, sitting down on the armchair facing the sofa, and Louis. 

“Right,” Louis mutters, and Harry can see that he’s trying to brace himself. He lets out a deep breath and lifts his head a little, “They heard about the orphanage. Simon told me today that the Government wants to close it.”

“Can they do that?” Harry asks, somewhat uselessly because of course. Of course they can.

Louis must be thinking the same thing because he doesn’t answer Harry’s question, only replies, “I’m so sorry.”

“And there’s nothing we can do?” He’s grasping at straws, only delaying the inevitable. The implications of what Louis is saying are too horrifying for him to contemplate right now. 

“To prevent them from doing it?” Louis replies. “I don’t think so, no. I… I tried. But their minds are made up.”

“Jesus,” Harry utters and it’s starting to hit him, slow at first, like the first signs of pain you feel after being punched, when the shock has passed and your body starts taking in that it’s been attacked, and then more and more quickly, the pain spreading through his body and his mind as real, as tangible as if someone had actually hit him. “They’re children, Lou. They don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I know,” Louis agrees.

A few tremors start to shake Harry’s body and, God, he’s angry.  The worst kind of anger, the one that has no object to attach itself to, that just lies there, simmering until it explodes. He’s not angry with Simon, or the Government, for playing and winning a game they agreed to. He’s not angry with Louis who is looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for Harry to make the next move.  Letting Harry have his space. And Harry’s not sure if that makes him want to laugh that Louis should be so mindful of his personal space in this precise moment Harry needs him the most, when the physical boundaries between them have been, at best, blurred since the first moment they met, or if it makes him want to cry. So he goes back to anger.

He’s angry, he decides, at the circumstances that led them here again. At how they thought they would be cleverer the second time around and how utterly they failed. Mostly, though, he’s angry with himself. For missing the war so badly, sometimes, that the only way to fall asleep was to hope that he would dream about it. For not being enough without fighting defining whom he had become. For wanting more of it.

How arrogant to have believed that they could win this time. How arrogant to have wanted to believe in it so desperately.

Louis is still looking at him and Harry says the only thing he can think of,

“I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not...I’m not blaming you, Lou.”

“Thank you,” Louis whispers. “Although I would understand if you did. But that’s not what I was thinking about.”

“Oh?” it comes out as more surprised than questioning, because it’s so rare for Harry to get it wrong.

The look that passes on Louis’ face is one that will take Harry months to understand. It’s not guilt and it’s not an apology. Maybe, if he just had one word to describe it, he would say that it was sorrow. But that’s not it either. It’s something more complicated than that. It’s as if Louis knows that what he’s about to say will hurt Harry more deeply than anything he’s ever told him before – and Louis has always been so careful in his honesty, in how far he could push Harry – and he wishes he could take the words back when they’ve not even left his mouth yet.

“I was thinking,” he says, oh so quietly but without hesitancy, “that maybe it was a mistake to come back.”

It shouldn’t be surprising, isn’t even that far from what Harry was thinking. They’ve skirted around it more than once and the thought has been there for a while, lingering between them, unacknowledged. Yet, the admission leaves him breathless and there’s something ugly rising in his chest, something that wants to get out. Something like screaming until his voice breaks.

They had been pretending and, although they hadn’t been very good at it, it had still been something they could hold on to. Louis, with his honesty, just shattered the illusion. 

“Harry?” Louis asks, waiting for an answer but Harry has no answer for him. What is there to say, when the only thing you know how to do is eating away at you, inch by inch? When you’ve admitted that it was a mistake yet you know that neither of you will back down, will let go of it?

There are moral reasons for not letting go of it, sure, and one could argue that they signed contracts, that they’re bound to see this through to its end. But that’s not the real driving force behind their actions, is it? The real hunger. The real need.

 _I miss it sometimes. Is it mad? – Do you remember me? – Let it not be said, that we weren’t better than those we overthrew – Tell me how happy it is, please. Tell me how happy we are – So we’re playing both spies and heroes? – It’s all about Louis – It’ll get lonely, you know – This is not what I… what we fought for -_ (and finally, finally) _– What if it never ends?_  

It’s a clear path, drawing itself in Harry’s mind – where they began, how they ended up here. It’s not hard to convey all the events that led them to this very moment, with all of their twists and turns, not when Harry has been going through them again and again every night, albeit searching for something else.

“Did you know?” When Harry replies, it’s a question, not an answer.  “Did you know, that it would end like this?”

“It’s not over yet, Haz.”

“Not the campaign, no. But the…” the hope, maybe, or the sense of possibility, or everything they had been seeking when they had decided to come back.

“I thought it might be a possibility, yes” Louis answers, relieving Harry from having to voice it. “But I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”

How Louis is looking at him, tentative and unsure, in a way he hasn’t been with Harry since they first kissed on the beach all those years ago (and how they had thought that it would be all right now, that it had to be because they were in this together and they both had no doubts about it) would break Harry’s heart if it hadn’t already been shattered a few minutes ago. The anger has left him, as has the will to scream, and he feels completely blank. Soon, the reality of it all will settle in, and the guilt, and the helplessness but, right now, the most important thing is that Louis listens to what Harry has to say and understands him. So Harry gets out of the armchair and steps around the coffee table to settle at the foot of the sofa, one hand hovering in the empty space between him and Louis. In invitation or supplication, he wouldn’t be able to tell. No one else would see the tiniest moment of hesitation before Louis lowers himself on the floor and takes Harry’s hand but no one else is Harry.

“I’m not blaming you,” Harry says, echoing his previous words. He knows now that he didn’t get it wrong and how very Louis it was to deflect Harry’s words in that manner.

Louis doesn’t look up at him, eyes trained on their clasped hands. “That’s what they want you to do,” he murmurs and it’s broken.

“I know,” Harry answers. “I’m not doing it.” 

“Right,” Louis mumbles. “Right, okay.” And Harry can guess the questions he won’t ask in the way his teeth nibble away at his lips, in the way his jaw clenches just a bit. There is one last question Harry has to ask, though, even if he already knows the answer,  

“What are we going to do?”

“What do you wants us to do?” Louis asks back, offering Harry the pretence of a choice. It’s a lovely thing to do, although ultimately useless.

“I think that we should finish what we started,” and it’s not an answer to the question, but it’s the best Harry can do.

Louis nods, once, and that settles it.

It’s still feels like defeat.

***

That night, it takes Harry the longest time to fall asleep. He spends most of it watching Louis nestled under the covers. The intimacy of his naked body clearly visible under the sheets, his sheer vulnerability, is almost too much and Harry can barely breathe. There’s a distance between them that he doesn’t know how to close.

Slowly, trying not to wake Louis up, Harry slides under the covers before turning around to face Louis. Even in his sleep he seems agitated, brow furrowed, little puffs escaping from his parted lips. Harry wishes he could bring him a semblance of peace.

_What can I do?_

The question remains unspoken, lingering on the tip of Harry’s tongue. Even if he said it out loud, there would be no one to answer him. And that’s it, isn’t it? The crux of the matter. There’s not much Harry can do, no matter how many times he wishes he could, no matter how hard he tries to hold on to the little things they have left in a vain attempt at convincing himself that they still have some control over what’s happening.

They don’t.

“I choose you,” Harry says, out loud this time. The words echo faintly in the silence of their bedroom. “If it’s the only thing I can do, I choose you.”

Then he turns around again, grabbing his phone and sending a quick text to a number he had hoped he’d never have to use, before closing his eyes.

 He doesn’t dream. 

***

“Thank you for accepting my invitation,” Harry welcomes Julia when she arrives in front of the restaurant. “I know it was short notice.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Julia answers. “And I did tell you to call me, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he acknowledges. “Shall we?” he gestures toward the front door of the restaurant.

“Yes of course,” she smiles at him as he opens the door to let her get in first. The entrance is spacious, a waiter waiting for them in front of a door that must be leading to the main area.  The waiter’s face brightens when he sees Julia.

“Mrs Corden!” he exclaims, “and?” he turns to face Harry, expression pleasantly expectant. 

“Mr Styles,” Harry says, offering a hand.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he answers, shaking Harry’s hand with a bit too much enthusiasm. “We do love Julia here. I hope the elusive Mr Corden is doing well?” he asks her. “We’ve unfortunately never seen him,” he adds in direction of Harry, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.

Julia laughs. “You know how it is,” she says. “Always so busy with politics. But he’s well, thank you.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” the waiter replies. “Come on, let’s get you seated. We’ve gotten you one of our best tables.” 

“You’re not married, are you?” Julia asks Harry, while they follow the waiter to their table. It’s on the other side of the room, next to a large bay window. “You and Louis, I mean,” she adds as they both sit down, facing each other. Julia thanks the waiter, who promises to be back as soon as he can with their menus, and Harry thinks about how to answer her question.

Like with every answer there’s an easy version he could give her. Getting married has never seemed important to them, and they don’t need it, they don’t need a piece of paper from the city hall to make what’s between them official in any way. That’s the truth, as much as the truth can be defined and put into words. But there’s also a more complicated version of it.

In this version, the version where Harry’s completely honest, there’s something essential to grasp. When they came back, Harry felt a lot of things – and above all uncertainty – but there was one thing he didn’t feel. Surprise. Like some part of him, one that Harry had kept buried deep during their time in London, had always been aware that they were living on borrowed time and that they would somehow have to end up back here.  That all the rest, London, the life they had built there, had been nothing but a temporary reprieve. One long breath of fresh air before diving back into their only reality, into war.

It’s hard, to imagine a future when it seems to have been robbed from you a long time ago. In the end, though, he just answers, “No, we aren’t.”

“Ah,” she says, extending a hand to grab the menus the waiter is handing her. She puts one in front of Harry and opens hers, skimming through it. “No kids either?” It’s gentle and her expression is hidden behind the menu. It’s hard to tell if she’s being discerning or simply tactless.

“No,” he repeats. “No kids either.”

She puts the menu down and offers him an apologetic smile. Discerning it is, then. “I don’t know why I bother looking at this thing,” she nods at the menu. “I know it off by heart.”

“Ah yes,” he says. “I’ve gathered that you come here often.”

“It’s like I said,” she shrugs, “Sometimes it gets lonely. And I like it here.”

“Hmm,” Harry answers noncommittally, looking out the window. He’s greeted by the view of what used to be a normal building, now a ruin. “The Rebuilding still has much to do, doesn’t it?” he asks.

“Oh.” Julia’s tone is awkward, almost embarrassed. “I don’t think they’re planning on rebuilding this one. It’s been declared as being a part of the, uh, war landscape. Preserved, if you will.”

“Ah,” Harry replies in a flat voice. “I see.” He clears his throat, trying to defuse the uneasiness between them. “So, what would you recommend? I’m terrible at choosing dishes.”

“You should try the eggs. Or the salmon, depending on how hungry you feel.” Harry’s ravenous. He’s barely eaten since he came back to the flat the day before, stomach knotted by anxiety, and his body is now reminding him of it. “I’m sorry,” Julia adds in an apologetic tone. “We can ask to be seated elsewhere, if you want?”

“No it’s fine,” Harry reassures her, even if it’s not really. Somehow, it would be easier if he knew when the building had been destroyed, and by whom. Was it during the Riots? Or, later, during the Rebellion? Was Louis the one who planted the explosive charges? Or was it destroyed when the rebellious groups took the city back, long after they were gone?

“Are you ready to order?”

Harry lifts his head up to see that the waiter is back, holding a notebook in one hand. “Yes, please. I’ll have the salmon,” he says, shooting a small smile at Julia. She returns his smile before giving her own order.

They wait for their food to arrive by making casual conversation, not ready yet to get at the heart of things. Harry’s fine with it, he’ll need all the comfort food can offer for what comes next. When their plates have been placed in front of them and they’ve made a significant dent in them, Julia broaches the topic, blunt and to the point.

“What brings us here, then?”

‘You know Lily, right?”

“Yes,” Julia answers.

“I’ve been helping her at the orphanage. She thought that it would be a good idea.” He doesn’t let himself linger on the guilt clogging his throat. “Long story short, it wasn’t. They’re closing the orphanage.” Julia doesn’t ask him who he means by ‘they’, which is telling enough.

 “I see. And you feel...?”

“Guilty,” he answers because there’s no point in doing this, in asking to talk to her in the first place if he’s not being honest. “But that’s not… That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“No?” she wonders, taking a portion of her eggs with her fork and bringing them elegantly to her mouth. Harry tries to mimic her to the best of his abilities but, well. He’s sort of out of place. He’s out of place in this restaurant, out of place in the big flat that was given to him all those months ago, out of place in this city that used to be his.

“I wanted to talk to you about Louis.” And there. That’s the heart of the matter. “He was the one who had to tell me that they wanted to close the orphanage,” he adds as an explanation. Not that it explains anything but Julia doesn’t seem to mind, just nods, food now forgotten, as she waits for Harry to continue.

“You see,” Harry starts and maybe that’s a better way of explaining it. It’s hard, when the story is not completely his to share. It’s not a secret either because anyone who has spent enough time with Louis would be able to tell those things. Still, there’s a vague feeling of betrayal simmering in Harry’s chest. He quenches it. “You see,” he repeats, “there are people who are, like, affected by the tiniest things. Too exposed to what life keeps throwing at them, because they care so much.  So they have this, uh, infinite capacity for getting hurt, and it’s not always the big things that do it. Sometimes it only takes a grain of sand to derail a well-oiled machine.” He stops, for a few seconds. Gathers his thoughts. “And then, there are other people,” he continues, hoping it makes sense. That he’ll be understood. “People who seem to get out of everything thrown at them intact. I don’t think they never get hurt, but maybe things don’t cut as deep or, like, the hurt doesn’t last as long. Maybe they’re just better at pretending.”

“So,” Julia says, without any hint of judgement in her tone, “which one of those categories are you in?”

“The first one,” he smiles ruefully. He doesn’t say more. This conversation isn’t about him. “And that’s fine. Louis, though. Louis belongs in the first category too but wishes he was in the second one.”

Julia hums.

“The thing is,” and this is where it gets hard to explain, “sometimes you think that if you don’t let the pain show, if you pretend it’s not there, it’ll somehow diminish the hurt you felt. You think it makes you feel less vulnerable.” He laughs softly, “You told me that it would get lonely. That I would feel lonely. Louis, despite everything, is one of the loneliest persons I know. When we first met he was so determined to break himself in order to prove himself worthy, you know? As if, if it was his own choice this time, it wouldn’t be as bad.”

The most heartbreaking part, though, is how, sometimes, he sees possibilities in Louis. Or, more precisely, possibilities of who Louis could have been, in other circumstances. In another life, maybe. How he doesn’t let the loudest parts of himself show, how he reigns himself in – always. Maybe if they had met earlier, he would have been able to catch Louis before those things had become so normal to him that he doesn’t even pay attention to them anymore. Sometimes, before going to sleep, watching Louis rest, as peaceful as he’s ever been, this thought comes to him, blooms in his mind, unbidden, _I still dream of saving you_. It’s an idle thought, one that doesn’t stay with him for long because, more than anything else, he’s grateful. Grateful to have Louis with him, in any capacity he can. And, maybe, that’s what he’s trying to say, why he asked to meet her. So that there would be a witness to him saying that, in spite of it all, he feels grateful for Louis. 

“It’s not being lonely that hurts me,” he starts again, before shrugging. “It’s the thought of Louis being lonely without me.”

His gaze wanders to the ruin still exposed, on the other side of the window. There’s something almost obscene about the way it has been preserved, put out on display for people to look at and weep about something they didn’t live through. It’s somewhat unfair of him, true.

There had been a morning in Rome, not long after they had left the Bahamas, the both of them still feeling so raw from everything that had happened to them, neither of them able to make it an entire night without having a nightmare, when he had crumbled in front of the Colosseum. Louis had held him then, had told him that it would be all right. Had kept all the parts Harry’s made of, all those parts that could so easily scatter and be lost, together – the solid weight of Louis’ body the only thing Harry could hold on to.

Is it so different then, that other people, new people, should come here to visit and measure the weight of their memories and what had happened to them, against the weight of what had happened to this city, this country?

“Don’t you think,” Julia asks, interrupting Harry’s train of thought, “that maybe you’re taking too much upon yourself?”

Which is a fair question. The first interview, the one they had approved, not the one that had been published, had been full of various epithets trying to define Harry and Louis’ relationship. Define or delimit, depending on the point of view. ‘War heroes” had been, maybe, the most obvious and innocuous one, if kind of hard to identify with. “New York’s latest power couple” had been amusing, at the time. Now it’s almost cruel in light of their powerlessness. None of them, though, had been able to capture the essence of their dynamic, the implicit and infinite trust between them.

There’s a way Louis’ eyelashes flutter when their mouths part after they’ve kissed for a long time, as if he has to take a moment to regroup and that’s his way of doing it. There’s a way Louis smiles, when he’s not fully awake yet but still wants to greet Harry good morning. There’s a way Louis laughs, even when what Harry’s just said isn’t particularly funny, that makes him feel like he could start a one-man show on the spot.

And, much later, when everything’s said and done, when the world has forgotten all about them, when they’re nothing more than a footnote at the bottom of a history book page, Harry will still be there and will still remember Louis as he was. Bright and incandescent and shining with the light of a thousand suns.

“Maybe,” Harry answers. “But so does Louis. And if I can… If I can make it a little easier for him to bear, then I have to do it.”

“Does it hurt?” Julia asks, not unsympathetic.

“It does,” Harry admits. “But not as often as you might think. I just forget about it, most of the time.”

Julia smiles but doesn’t reply. Maybe there’s not much left to say. Harry goes back to his food, intent on finishing his salmon. When he puts down his fork, Julia raises an eyebrow at him and asks,

“All done?”

“Yes. It was delicious, thanks for the suggestion.”

“It was my pleasure.” She hesitates before saying, “Let’s take a walk outside if you still have some time. I could use some fresh air after all this food.”

“Sure, where do you want to go?”

“We’re not far from Central Park, let’s go there, yes? Unless you feel like something more exotic?”

“No,” Harry laughs. “It’ll do.”

The walk is lovely, the air cold and biting but, at the same time, invigorating.  They end up sitting down on a bench, huddled in their winter coats, hands hidden inside their pockets.

“I owe you an apology,” Julia says, breaking the amicable silence between them.

Harry tilts his head questioningly at that.

“I, uh. I was wrong to make assumptions about your relationship, back at the press conference. So, if you will, please forgive me?”

There’s nothing to forgive and Harry says as much but Julia doesn't seem to deem it enough. “For what it’s worth,” Harry adds then, “I’m glad I could talk to you today.”

“Thank you.” There’s a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth, something a bit sad. She sighs, “I’m afraid I have to go. I’ve given our nanny her afternoon. You should come visit, sometime?”

“Oh,” Harry says, delighted. “Yes, sure. I love babies.”

“Well, you’re very welcome if you ever want to. A last piece of advice if you don’t mind?”

“Yes?”

“You should inform our, ah, mutual friend about the orphanage situation. He may be able to do something about it.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, trying to convey that he isn’t just talking about the advice. She bids him goodbye and he stays seated on the bench, watching her silhouette disappear. He’s about to get up and follow her example when his phone starts vibrating in the back pocket of his jeans.

“Hi love,” he greets. Louis’ voice on the other side of the line, made raspier than usual with the lack of sleep but still warm, is like balm soothing the bruises left by his conversation with Julia. Not that it was a bad conversation but, well. It still hurt. “Did you want something?”

“No,” Louis says. “Just had a break and I wanted to know how you were doing. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Hmm, no. I’ve just had brunch with Julia. Julia Corden?” Louis lets out an affirmative noise and Harry continues, “I was about to head to the orphanage.”

“Haz,” it’s raw and full of sorrow, “you don’t have to. You could wait for me to go with you.”

“Not it’s fine.” Harry closes his eyes. “I, uh. I think I need to do it. Like, for myself and for them. I owe it to Lily and the kids.”

“If you’re sure,” Louis answers.  “I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yeah, I don’t have anything planned. I’ll just come straight back to the flat once I’m done.”

“Okay.” A breath, then, “I love you.” It’s shaky as if he’s unsure that it’s welcome right now, but it is. And even more than that.

“I love you too,” Harry replies just before the call disconnects. He stays a bit longer on the bench, face lashed by the wind. It’s going to start snowing soon, in a few weeks, maybe. It’ll be his first winter in New York with Louis and probably the only one. The idea that they’ll have to go back to London, though, leaves him uneasy. Instead of dwelling on it he gathers all his courage – and how frail it seems to be – and gets up.

On to the orphanage, then.

***

“I don’t give a fuck,” Lily spits out. “We’re staying here. What can they do anyway?”

Many things, actually, but it’s not Harry’s place to say anything about that. He’s done enough. His silence doesn’t matter because Lily seems to read right through it, continuing, her tone becoming more and more indignant as the words stumble out of her mouth in quick succession, “No, really. What are they gonna do? Barge in the middle of the night, armed, and threaten the children?” Harry suppresses a shudder. “That’s what the previous Government did,” she snarls. “I thought we had elected this one so it would do _better_.”  The way she says it, the sheer disdain in her voice are enough to convey that she doesn’t believe this one is in any way better.

And, yes. That’s what the previous Government did. It all comes back to Harry. Not that he had ever forgotten, but memories fade. There had been enough mornings waiting for a regular client and never seeing them pass the door of his shop, left forever unsure about what had happened. Had they fled? Had they been involved in the Rebellion and found out? Or, and this was always the worst scenario, had someone, one day, just decided that this person didn’t deserve to be free anymore? There had been the fear, ever present and overwhelming, that one day it would be him, people would wait for in the front of the shop, until it would become clear that he wouldn’t open that day, that he would never open again.

In this moment, it feels absurd to Harry that he has ever missed it, unconceivable that he has ever dared formulate the thought, that he has been vain enough to utter it out loud. He almost bends his head under the sheer weight of the shame settling on his shoulders but Lily is still talking, and he owes it to her to listen and look her in the eyes until the very end. To watch her face distorted with rightful anger.

It _is_ rightful and so very different from the aimless one he had felt, so incandescent in its absolute certainty that she’s right and that they’re wrong, that it almost soothes him. The thought registers that he wishes he could somehow bottle it up and keep it forever, a tangible reminder that what they lived through wasn’t nothing. _You’ve got a right to be angry too_ , it whispers to him. _You’ve got a right to scream and cry and plead for what has been done to you_.

 _You’ve got the right to wish it never did_.

“Fuck that,” Lily repeats, more for herself than for Harry. “We’re staying.”

“You’ve got a rent to pay,” Harry points out and no, this is what shame feels like. Taking away from someone who doesn’t deserve it in any way their last shred of hope. But she doesn’t relent.

“I know,” her smile is twisted and sad. “I hope he has fun throwing us out on the street.”

“I am so very sorry.” It’s the first time he’s said it since he told her the news.

“What for?” she asks. From anyone else, it would be mocking, cruel maybe, but there’s no doubting the sincerity of her tone.

“For what happened. For this.”

“Were you the one to decide to close us?” When Harry doesn’t answer, wouldn’t even know what to answer, she continues, “Then don’t apologize.”  Harry has never asked her how old she is, has never even thought about it because the way she holds herself, like she’s used to having no one but herself to rely on yet knowing that it’s enough, is something he understands, something that doesn’t need to be explained to him. In this moment, though, she looks heartbreakingly young. He doesn’t know her story, not like she must know his, but he can make an educated guess or two. So he doesn’t utter the automatic ‘sorry’ that’s on the tip of his tongue, stays silent, waits. In a gentle voice, much gentler than Harry deserves, she adds, “Don’t take responsibility for something you didn’t do. It won’t help us.”

 “If it wasn’t for your association with me, though…”

“But I asked you for it, didn’t I? If we’re playing this game, then I’m as much to blame as you are.” She lets out a fragile sigh and the youth disappears from her face again, replaced by this ageless look he recognises all too well. It’s akin to staring into a mirror. “Let’s just not play into it. That’s what they would want us to do, and to be frank, I’m not ready to give them that.”

“All right,” he agrees. It’s strangely reminiscent of what he had told Louis the day before, and it’s not an easy thing to accept, forgiveness. 

He doesn’t stay for dinner. She asks him but he’s promised Louis that he’d be back at the flat early and, to be honest, he’s not sure he could bear it. He doesn’t say the second part out loud, but Lily probably knows and that’s enough for the shame and the guilt to flare inside of him again. He promises her to stay in touch, asks for her to call him if her plan changes or if anything happens, and that’s it.

On the way home, he sends a text to the number saved as _Sporty Spice_ in his phone before putting it back into his pocket.

He walks and people don’t shy away from him, no one bends their head when he passes next to them, no one hurriedly crosses the street. There’s no curfew and he has all the time he wants to get back to his flat.

The fear that lingers in his veins isn’t as upfront as it used to be, it’s something more insidious, something less easily put into words. It’s a fear that exists not for himself, but for those he loves and wants to take care of.

And that’s the real difference, more than anything else. He has people to love and protect now and he’ll do whatever needs to be done not to fail them again.

***

There’s a quietness to the flat when Harry enters it, a quality to the silence permeating it that tells him all he needs to know. Louis isn’t home. Harry pours himself a glass of chardonnay before sitting down on the sofa, feet resting on the coffee table, the glass of wine set on one of the armrests in a precarious equilibrium. He takes his phone out of his pocket to see that he has two messages.

The first one is an answer to the text he just sent, a rather ambiguous “I’ll be in touch, don’t do anything.” The second one is from Louis. 

**_dinner with Simon, will try not to be back too late. sorry, love you._ **

Harry gets up and, when he settles back on the sofa, it’s with the bottle of chardonnay placed on the coffee table. It’s a bad idea considering how little he ate in the past twenty-four hours, but fuck it. 

Harry has rules about the things Louis has to do. They’re simple rules, the same that he used to have when they were at the Factory. First, do not think about it. Second, there’s nothing you can do. Which usually brings him back to rule number one – do not think about it. Not too much anyway.

Instead of thinking about it, he closes his eyes, taking a sip of his wine, and goes through his routine. He must fall asleep, at some point (is it between the time they signed the contracts and the dinner with the azoffs? or between the dinner party and the memorial inauguration?) because he’s woken up by the touch of Louis’ hand on his shoulder.

“Haz?” Louis whispers. “Is everything okay?”

“I- yes. What time is it?” he asks, disoriented.

“Only half past ten.”

“Oh.” Well, he had barely slept the night before.

Louis must be thinking the same thing because he smiles and says, “Go to bed, yeah? I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” Harry replies, not willing to argue. His mind is still fuzzy with sleep and the remains of the alcohol coursing through his veins, even though the one glass he had is still set on the coffee table near the opened bottle, unfinished.

The feeling of Louis’ naked body pressing against his under the warm sheets, solid and just – there – still there, is a relief. Harry lets out a sigh and snuggles closer to him.

“How was dinner?” And that’s another rule. He can ask after, once Louis comes back to him safe, and Louis doesn’t have to answer, but he usually does.

“Fine. There were, um, there were photographers though. When we left. I think there will probably be an article tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Harry answers, because it’s all part of the same thing. The articles, making Louis tell Harry that they were closing the orphanage, calling for Louis to go work with them every day, at any hour. It’s all part of the same one big thing and there’s nothing they can do about it without compromising themselves further, without throwing all their hard work away.

It’s about more than hard work, though. It’s about the sacrifices they made knowingly and those they made without even being aware that they were doing so – Julia asking, _you’re not married, are you? No kids either?_  and Harry answering, _no_. 

“Were you surprised?” Harry asks, turning around to face Louis. It’s like asking for Louis to pass the last piece of a puzzle to him, the one that’ll make the entire picture complete. “When we decided to come back?”

“Not really, no.”

“What did you feel then?”

“Relief.” Louis says, voice not even loud enough to qualify as a whisper. “It was relief.” Which isn’t unexpected.

Harry brings his hands to Louis’ shoulders and pushes him slightly, so that he’s resting against the mattress and settles above him. He’s not sure if it’s acknowledgement or consolation he’s trying to offer when he kisses Louis, parting his lips with his, and maybe it’s both. For a moment they stay like this, Harry hovering above Louis, hands still pressed against his shoulders, trading open-mouthed kisses. Around them the night is quiet, not a sound to be heard. It would be peaceful if not for the wild beating of their hearts, for the desperation lingering every time one kiss ends and another begins, for the tacit understanding between them that this is different than usual.

At some point, Louis tries to turn the kiss forceful, like he does when he wants it a bit rough but that’s not… That’s not what tonight is about. Tonight, Harry doesn’t want to help Louis forget, he wants to help Louis remember. It’s about Louis – letting Harry close to him or maybe it’s about Harry – closing the distance between them, doing what he was unable to do the night before. If Harry could, he would crawl into the soft parts of Louis’ body, into its imperfections, the crease left by his too often furrowed brows, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the scars that only Harry knows of, until all those little imperfections were full of Harry.

He can’t, though, so he settles for kissing each one of them, as slowly and gently as he can, wet kisses lasting a tiny fraction too long. There’s nothing delicate or skilful about it and it’s fine. He doesn’t want it to be, doesn’t care about that in any way. It’s about – tenderness. The one that sometimes unfurls inside of Harry’s chest and almost crushes him with its sheer strength. It’s about – the way his heart clenches in this very specific way, like it’s all too much, when Louis smiles at him in the mornings, still sleepy.

It’s about telling a story _._

 _Once upon a time, it was war when we met and somehow it’s still war years after, but not the same kind of war, and we’re still here, and we’re still standing, and I still love you_.

“I love you,” Harry says out loud, Louis’ skin hot and salty under his mouth, Louis’ body pliant under his hands, his eyes very still, looking at Harry like he can’t quite tell if he’s real. Most of the time, there’s too much of Harry, of Harry’s body, which is a bit too tall, of Harry’s jaw, which is a bit too wide, of Harry’s hair, which is a bit too long. In Louis’ arms, though, all the things that are too much seem to vanish and he’s suddenly perfect.

Declarations of love and devotion and adoration fight on the tip of Harry’s tongue, every new one more ridiculous and over the top than the last one but he says none of them. “I love you,” he repeats instead, still kissing the moles on Louis’ cheek. Something so chaste shouldn’t be arousing, yet Harry’s body feels on fire. Every kiss pressed on Louis’ skin, punctuated by a breathy whimper coming from Louis, seems to strengthen the intimacy of the moment, and Harry is almost choking on it, almost suffocating and he’s afraid that soon his lungs might collapse.

“What do you want?” Harry manages to whisper and Louis lets out a laugh.

“I thought we were doing what you want tonight, love?”

Harry nods in response, burying his face in the crook of Louis’ neck because he’s not sure he wants Louis to see the expression on his face.

( _What_ _I want is for none of this to have happened.)_

“Just kiss me again,” Louis says, sensing that Harry is on the verge of something, something similar to breaking, and so Harry does. He focuses on this and this only, kissing Louis like it’s the most important thing in the world. In a way it is. 

Louis starts squirming under Harry and Harry breaks the kiss to pepper his chest with lingering kisses, his hands still holding Louis in place, until he reaches Louis’ crotch.

When Harry takes Louis’ cock in his mouth he’s the one who lets go of everything, everything that isn’t Louis, at least. He concentrates on the weight of it, how it feels in his mouth, on the noises Louis is making, small and airy, like one too loud could shatter this tentative and fragile moment they’ve been building together all night, this moment of absolution. His hands slip under Louis thighs and then higher, grabbing Louis’ bum and pushing him closer to Harry and deeper into his mouth. Louis’ eyes widen at that and Harry can see it, even from his awkward point of view, but it’s fine. This is what Harry wants.

“Please,” he pleads (or invokes, maybe). “Please let me do this.”

So Louis nods in acquiescence and Harry does.

When Louis comes, lips bitten raw and hands clenched around the sheets, Harry presses his forehead against Louis’ thigh, breathing heavily, unable to tell who feels more shattered, him or Louis. He tells Louis so. 

“You always shatter me, Haz,” Louis answers and there’s not a hint of a laugh in his voice.

“Is that a good or a bad thing?”

“It’s what I want,” Louis says, and it’s not exactly an answer but it’s good enough.

Later, watching Louis sleep, that’s when Harry thinks it again – _I want for none of this to have happened_. He closes his eyes and they’re not here anymore, they could be anywhere in the world and it goes like this –

There’s a place that’s not here, or a moment of time, maybe, that’s not this time, where none of this happened. In this place Louis isn’t afraid to laugh as loud as his body wants him to. He doesn’t catch himself at the last minute, he isn’t afraid of what would happen if he let it all out.  In this place, they’ve been hurt too, but not so much that they sometimes think they’ll never be able to breathe again. The things that hurt don’t have to be small things, but they didn’t linger. They didn’t leave, on their bodies, invisible marks so wide they had to cover them up with tattoos, with promises repeated again and again in the dark – _it’s fine, we’ll be all right, we can survive this_. In this place, Harry can reinvent himself as often as he wants, doesn’t hold on to pictures of memories he thinks of as happy now that enough time has passed. In this place, it’s always easy to imagine a future.

Harry could tell Louis about this place and Louis would ask, because Louis always asks the hard questions, _would you rather be there?_ And Harry would have to answer ‘no’, because there’s always a chance that they wouldn’t have met, and thinking about that hurts more than what they’re going through.

So Harry forces himself to go back to the present, to what they are now. It’s more peaceful than he thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun anecdote, I went to Rome this summer and they had a modern art exhibition about history, memory and memorialization taking place on the Palatine Hill.  
> [Here](http://www.partibiromanihil.info/) is the website of the exhibition if you’re interested.


	6. 5.

5.

“We invented a fence in the middle of the snow so we could meet at the fence and whisper.”

Richard Siken, “Landscape with black coats in the snow” in  _War of the foxes_.

There’s a fragile quality to the morning after, something both tender and raw permeating the atmosphere in such a tangible manner that Harry can almost feel it against his skin, caressing it with the delicacy of a summer breeze. It could be the morning after a fight, when each uttered word has to be weighted, is a work of balance, a study in equilibrium. When you’re well aware that saying the wrong thing could reopen the wounds from the previous night and destroy whatever precarious attempt at peace you had managed to achieve.

As for the fact that there was no fight, well. Sometimes kisses and desperate pleas in the dark bruise more than any angry word could. So Harry lets the water dripping from the head of the shower wet his hair and his skin, making no real effort to wash himself. There’s something aching inside Harry’s chest, a longing for things to be simpler, easier. He closes his eyes and tilts his head so that the water sprays on his face, wondering about the picture he must be making. He’s not sure what he’s seeking, if it’s absolution, and whom would he even want it from, but it must be close to something like it.

Louis is somewhere in the flat, on the other side of the door, and maybe Harry should go find him instead of standing still under the water, should do it all over again – get down on his knees, let his hands find Louis’ hipbones, his mouth find Louis’ crotch. No, it’s not absolution he’s seeking. Maybe it’s reassurance. Not for him, but for Louis. How many times can one kneel down to express their devotion? How many proofs of something so fragile and ready to shatter can one lay down at someone else’s feet? 

When the water starts turning cold Harry quickly washes himself before stepping out of the shower, in front of the mirror of the bathroom. But his reflection holds no answer for him, is as opaque as his thoughts.

***

“You have a text,” Louis says, when Harry emerges from the bathroom. He’s sitting on the bed, a copy of today’s newspaper discarded next to him and Harry doesn’t ask. A brief glance toward it is enough for him to take in the picture spread across the cover, the exhaustion on Louis’ stilled face so different from the one Harry has become accustomed to. It’s like looking at a stranger, a part of Louis there’s no way for Harry to reach because this – the pretence, the falsely happy smiles, the wariness that still manages to bleed through Louis’ blank features – isn’t for him and never has been.

Louis catches Harry’s glance and shrugs in response.

“Who’s it from?” Harry asks. “The text, I mean.”

Louis lets out a small sigh. “Someone named Sporty Spice. Um. Is there something you’re not telling me?” There’s a hint of laughter in his voice, a quiet delight for Harry’s random burst of cleverness.

“They play golf together,” Harry answers, rummaging through the closet in search of something to wear, the beginnings of a smile playing around his lips.

“I’m glad to know that, if we win, the Government will at least be able to play golf correctly. Are they even good at it?” Louis muses and it’s so absurd, so out of tune with the heavy mood that has settled on Harry’s shoulders for the past few days that he can’t help himself and he bursts out laughing.

“I don’t know,” he hiccups, “but I’ll be sure to suggest to them that they should put the emphasis on it during the last months of the campaign.”

“Well,” Louis says, “looks like you’ll be able to tell them tonight. They want you to have a meeting.”

“Is there an address?” Harry asks, settling on a grey jumper.

“There is,” Louis says. Then, “Oh.”

“What is it?” He struggles for a few seconds with the jumper before managing to put it on and turns around to face Louis. His expression has turned serious and his gaze keeps wandering between Harry’s phone in his hands and the newspaper next to him. “What is it?” Harry repeats, softer this time. 

“They want you to, ah, be seen. When you go to the meeting place, I mean.”

“Okay,” Harry utters slowly, trying to give himself some time to process this new piece of information. He sits down on the bed in front of Louis and crosses his legs at his ankles, hands resting on his thighs, the newspaper and the phone lying between them. The implications of what they’re asking from him are quite clear and he doesn’t know what to do with them. In the end, he decides to state them,

“So, I’m not a spy anymore.”

“No,” Louis agrees. “Apparently, it’s just me now.” 

“Is that… Are you okay with that?” Harry asks out loud, although more for himself than for Louis.

Louis shrugs, delicate shoulders going up and down in one long fluid movement. “If that’s what they think is best,” he says, and it’s not an answer.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine Haz.” Louis must be aiming at reassuring, but it comes out a bit weak, a bit sad. “It’s not that surprising, is it?” he continues, one hand toying with the edge of the newspaper. 

It isn’t, which is different from hoping that the situation wouldn’t come to that, but that’s one thing Harry doesn’t say out loud.

“I’ll go work on the Washington speech, I think,” Louis says, when it becomes clear that Harry has no answer for him, no matter how much he wished he did. Harry takes the opportunity to change the conversation topic.  

“So it’s decided then?”

“Yes, they want me to come. They were very happy with the Factory speech, or so they told me.”

“That’s, um, good. I’ll come with you?”

“I’m not sure you’ll be allowed to,” Louis answers. It’s such a simple manner of voicing Harry’s fears that it leaves him breathless.

“We’ll find a way, won’t we? We didn’t… When we came to the Factory, we didn’t let them separate us. Let’s not start now.” He’s not begging, but it wouldn’t take much for him to do so. 

“Of course,” Louis replies, in an appeasing voice. His hand stops playing with the newspaper and comes to rest on Harry’s thigh, just above Harry’s, fingers digging into Harry’s flesh through the rough material. Harry doesn’t wince. Instead he scoots closer to Louis, trapping his hand between his legs and kisses him.

There’s nothing delicate about the way their lips come together. It’s hungry and possessive, with an edge of desperation Harry hadn’t been aware was eating away at him until now. Louis’ mouth parts under his and Harry kisses him in the only way he can think of, trying to convey what is thrumming through his body, a wild incantation. 

_We’re still here. We’re still alive. We’re still here._

***

Irving glances at Jeff and they seem to come to a tacit understanding because Irving puts his fork down, raises his glass of wine to his lips and says,

“This is exactly what we were hoping for.”

Harry quenches the immediate surge of indignation and anger rising in his chest to tilt his head questioningly.

“You see,” Jeff starts, “we’ve been making progress on the, uh, financial side of things but it’s taking time and we only have a couple of months left before the New Elections. Not enough time to do an expose, even though we’re hopeful that the work Louis has been doing will help us gather evidence that most funds didn’t go where they were supposed to.”

“In any case,” Irving continues, “it probably wouldn’t be enough to sway the votes. We do hope that it’ll be enough ground for a trial, though.” He puts his wine back down on the table, the expensive glass making an audible noise when it touches the wood. “But what you just told us…”   

“It’s the perfect story,” Jeff concludes.

Harry looks down at his hands, willing them not to shake, not to give him away. The guilt that has been clogging his throat for days and the relentless feeling that they did something wrong have barely begun to subside and everything is still too raw for him to look at the bigger picture objectively. Which is why he has come to them. Still. It fucking hurts.

“I understand,” he says, in what he hopes is an unwavering manner. And he does. This is about practicality. It’s about winning. “So,” he adds. “What do you have in mind?”

Like with every successful plan, Irving tells him, its effectiveness must reside in its simplicity. They’re going to wait, until they’re close to the New Elections, and reveal the whole sordid affair in the press.

“Maybe you should take a few pictures of the children?” Jeff muses. “It’s always easier to sell those sorts of stories to the public if they have, let’s say, physical evidence of what you’re talking about.”

“All right,” Harry agrees, feeling a bit sick. “And do you think… Will that be enough?”

The look Irving gives him holds, for the first time since their conversation started, a hint of sadness. “Let’s hope it is, shall we? I’ll make sure that the story is as heart-breaking as possible. Maybe your friend, Lily, could give us a few back stories for those children. Truth to be told,” he goes on, “we would probably have ended up making up a story like this ourselves. The fact that we didn’t have to,” he says, looking straight into Harry’s eyes, “says everything you need to know about the current Government.”

“I’m not… I’m not the one you need to be preaching to,” Harry answers, voice low but firm.

“No you aren’t, are you?”

“The children still need a place to live,” Harry says, changing the conversation topic. “Julia thought you might be able to do something about that.”

“I’ll think of something,” Irving says and, well, it has to be enough for now. “You must think me heartless,” he begins again, dismissing with a quick gesture of the hand whatever protests Harry might want to voice, “and that’s fine. Whatever you think of me is fine. I do want to thank you though, for the work you’ve been doing. I know it hasn’t been easy.”

Harry nods in acknowledgement, a curt motion of the head. To say that it hasn’t been easy is something of an understatement, but not for the reasons Harry might have listed before they came back. He had expected it to be hard, had expected the weeks to drag on with no end in sight, had expected the weight of uncertainty of the future.

What he hadn’t expected, maybe – the loneliness of it all and how crushing it would be. 

“If that’s all,” he says, “I’ll be leaving you. I think Louis is waiting for me at home.”

“Is he going to Washington?” Jeff asks, getting up. “I’ll accompany you outside,” he adds at Harry’s confused face.  “I could use a smoke.” 

“They requested it from him, yes,” Harry answers. “And you’ll be in Philadelphia, I guess?”

“We will,” Irving replies, resting one hand on Harry’s shoulder in goodbye. “I’ll try having some good news for you by then.”

“Stay with me for a few minutes?” Jeff asks as soon as they pass the front door of the restaurant and step onto the street. No one has bothered making sure that the lamplights in this part of town are repaired and everything around them is dark, Harry barely able to discern Jeff’s silhouette next to him. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light, squinting when Jeff lights a cigarette and a faint glow suddenly illuminates him. When he thinks that Jeff can see him too he shrugs in acknowledgement, throat burning with all the things he cannot say. Not even a simple “yes”.

“Have you ever wanted something so badly it leaves room for nothing else?” Jeff asks, looking down at his cigarette. It’s mostly rhetorical and they both know it, but still, Harry hums, a wordless way to tell Jeff to carry on.

“That’s how it is for me,” Jeff says. “You think you understand necessity but you don’t. Which is fine,” he adds, as if afraid that Harry’s interruption would bring an end to the conversation he’s apparently decided to hold with or without Harry’s approval. “You said that you understood our plan and I think you do, on an intellectual level at least. I’m not sure you agree with it, though.”

“Does it matter? The end result is the same.”

Jeff laughs in response. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. But that’s what we do, my father and I. We see opportunities, we recognise them for what they are and we take them. That, you should understand.”

“Should I?”

“You’re a photographer, aren’t you? So yes, you should. You know how to recognise small instants of the present time and understand that they’ll be worth something, for someone, in the future.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Harry asks, tone flat despite him being intent on not letting his irritation show.

“You don’t want to be here,” Jeff replies. “Or maybe you do, but not entirely. There’s still a part of you that’s resisting it. Listen Harry, I like you. But if you want to do this, if you truly want it, you need to commit to it completely, absolutely. You can’t leave room for anything else.”

“I think,” Harry says, articulating each word to make sure he’s understood, “that maybe Louis is the one you should be saying this to.”

“Is he? It’s not his name I see headlining the papers. It’s yours.” 

“Because you made it like this,” Harry utters. It’s not a scream, it’s worse than that, Harry’s tone made blank with the anger he’s trying to keep under control. “Because it’s part of a fucking plan neither me or Louis have been privy to. Not because I want it.”

“I see,” Jeff says, when the silence between them grows. “In that case, I’m sorry I pushed you.”

“So,” Harry asks. “Did I pass the test?”

“There was no test,” Jeff answers, in a low voice. Harry can’t see his eyes, can’t tell if he’s being sincere or if this is just another act, another part of a plan no one has told him about.  “For what it’s worth,” Jeff continues, “I think it’s admirable that you’ve managed to go through so much and still kept something for yourself.”

“What?” Harry says, voice hoarse with all the screams still caught in his throat.

“Sincerity, I guess. That’s part of your appeal. Yours and Louis’. There’s a lot you can fake, but you can’t fake sincerity.” He sighs, before extinguishing his cigarette. “There’s a car waiting for you at the corner of the street. Make sure you’re seen before you reach it.”  

“Okay,” Harry agrees, too tired to argue. Before leaving he says, “I agreed with the plan because I think it will lead us to the best outcome we can hope for. That’s all there is to it.”

“Well then,” Jeff says, one hand already on the handle of the restaurant’s door. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you do understand necessity. Good night, Harry.”  

“Good night,” Harry replies, but Jeff is already gone.

Right. Be seen again. The very notion goes against every instinct Harry had honed during the war, but still, he makes sure to walk right in the middle of the street, head held high, and doesn’t wince when the unmistakable sound of a photograph being taken is heard a few feet away from him.

Just before reaching the nondescript car parked where Jeff had said it would be, Harry finds himself wishing that Louis were here, waiting for him in it, that there was something – the clear sound of a high pitched laugh, maybe – to comfort him and tell him that he doesn’t have to do this alone. But Louis isn’t there and when Harry opens the door he’s greeted with empty seats and the heady, almost sickening, smell of new leather. He slides in the left seat, almost not registering the driver asking him for his address. He answers mechanically, the reality of the evening now crashing around him and he’s left gasping for air, head spinning, fingers shaking.

“Are you all right?” the driver asks in a concerned voice.

“I’m fine,” Harry manages to answer, although it’s too feeble to be convincing. “Just tired,” he adds, with the most charming smile he can muster, willing for the questioning to stop there. The driver gives him a sceptical look but doesn’t push and Harry is grateful for the wordless promise of discretion that comes with the kind of money that allows you to rent private cars. 

He rests his head against the window, a gesture between tiredness and defeat. What matters is that they have a plan now. A plan and two more months to go.

It’s enough for him to hold himself together until he gets back to the flat, and to Louis.

***

“The plan is,” Louis says, discarding boxes of takeaway and taking advantage of the space he’s just made to stretch his legs across the coffee table, “for me to go first and take a private jet with Simon and co and for you to arrive later by train. We’re allowed to come back together though, as long as we wait a day or two before doing so.” He looks up at Harry, his teeth nibbling away at his bottom lip in worry. “Is that okay with you?”

Harry shrugs. “I can’t say I like it, but if that’s what it takes. I can take the train.”

“Okay,” Louis smiles. “Good. I’m glad you’ll be able to be there after all.”

“It’s kind of stupid, isn’t it?” Harry says. “We’ll be staying in the same hotel room anyway. Anyone interested enough in us and our whereabouts will be able to find that out. What does it matter how we travel?”

It’s Louis’ turn to shrug now. “It’s all about appearances, I guess. Like, keeping them up. I don’t think they care about it making sense. What they care about is the message it sends.”

Harry doesn’t ask what the message is. He doesn’t have the heart to make Louis say it out loud. Louis seems to understand it because he not so subtly changes the conversation topic, voice light and airy. 

“Do you want to hear my speech?  It’s only a first draft, mind you.”

“Of course,” Harry replies. “I’d be honoured.”

“Right,” Louis says. “I’ll be right back, I need to go fetch it.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Harry says and that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s waiting. 

_Have you ever wanted something so badly it leaves room for nothing else?_ Jeff had asked him after their dinner a few weeks ago. _What if I don’t have the strength to quit?_ Louis had asked him in the library, although not in those words. _Is this something you want more than me?_ Harry doesn’t ask the room empty of Louis, while waiting for him to return with the draft of his speech _. The speeches, the arenas and stadiums full of people who have come to listen to what you have to tell them, the raucous applause and the accolades_?

Truth is, Harry doesn’t need an answer to those questions, he already knows what the answer would be. That’s not what prevents him from voicing them, though. If there’s a choice to be made, or maybe just the possibility of a choice, and if it’s this choice Harry’s waiting for, he’s not the one who will push Louis to face it.

Jeff had said that Harry didn’t understand necessity, but that was a laughable assertion, the easy catchphrase of someone who hadn’t been here with them during the war, who hadn’t seen them as they were. Who had no real memories of them. There are only three other people in this world who could understand and one of them is out of Harry’s reach. Maybe he should take Niall up on his offer. Maybe he would understand, even though Harry wouldn’t be allowed to tell him the whole truth about their situation. But before he has time to let the idea sink in, Louis comes back in the living room, a bunch of papers clutched in his hand.

“Are you all right?” Louis asks.

“Yes,” Harry answers, trying to erase any lingering trace of momentary weakness on his face. “Ready to hear your speech.”

“Right,” Louis says. “It’s only a first draft, though.”

“I know,” Harry agrees, not pointing out that Louis’s already told him that. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Okay,” Louis mutters, bracing himself. “Let’s do this then.”

Harry closes his eyes, letting Louis’ words wash over him. They’ll do another round after, one where he’ll observe every expression on Louis’ face – and another one, where he’ll listen to the way Louis pronounces every word. And again, and again, until it’s perfect. Until there’s nothing left for the crowd that will hear those words to do but listen to them with the utmost attention.

“We are all gathered in Washington today,” Louis says, “to talk about the past, and think about the future. The past, because this city used to be the capital of this country, where politics were made or, in some cases, where they died. The future because, as we all know, less than a decade ago this all changed and now is the time to reflect on those changes, the pain they brought us, but also the lessons, and to use those lessons to think about the kind of future we all want. A future that you’ll have to decide on in less than two months.”

It goes on, Louis’ airy voice creating a smooth rhythm. Harry listens intently, marvelling once again at how good it is, and how good Louis is at doing this. He doesn’t even need Harry’s input. But he wants it and that’s another reason why Harry won’t ask him the questions he can’t quite stop his mind from formulating. Why he will never force Louis to choose.

So when Louis is done, Harry opens his eyes and smiles at him and there’s nothing forced about it, nothing insincere. 

“That was amazing,” Harry breathes in wonder.

“Was it?”

“Yeah. It was. Can you just say the beginning again before we do a full debrief?” he asks. “It’s my favourite part, I think.”

Louis smiles back at him, relief visible on his face, before looking back down at his papers.

_We are all gathered in Washington today to talk about the past and think about the future._

***

The first day in Washington goes like this: Harry stays in his hotel room while, out there, Louis is delivering the speech that Harry helped him prepare until they were both drunk on exhaustion and exhilaration, until the words all blended together and they wouldn’t have been able to form a proper sentence if their lives had depended on it. They had kissed at some point, the night before they had to leave for Washington, sitting on the floor of the living room, dozens of papers scattered around them, had kissed – hungry and possessive and a little greedy, all teeth and tongue and not very delicate at all, but fuelled by the feeling that what they were doing was good, was the right thing to do.

When Louis comes back to him he’s bright and vibrant and Harry can almost taste the adrenaline still lingering on his skin. Louis tells him about the speech, about the applause, about the _rush_. Louis doesn’t tell him about the knowledge that they had a choice, it’s not the speech he would have made, the things he would have truly wanted to say, doesn’t tell him about the _shame_.

He doesn’t have to.

The second day in Washington, once most people have left the city, Harry and Louis are free to explore it together. (Although, and Harry had laughed at the ridiculousness of the mere concept when they were told they didn’t have a choice in the matter, it’s under a disguise, if one can call wearing grey hoodies during a cold December day a disguise.)  They wander around without much aim to their steps, although they tacitly decide to avoid the White House – they have both seen enough destruction for a lifetime.

It must be close to dusk when they find themselves on Constitution avenue, facing the National Archives building. Harry had been there once before, a short time before the Elections, and the place had been filled with visitors and tourists.

They’re all alone.

“It’s a bit sad, isn’t it?” he wonders out loud. “Those kinds of buildings… They’re meant to be seen and visited. Not left alone, like this.”

“Maybe it’s too soon,” Louis answers.

It hadn’t been too soon to erect a Memorial for the Factory, or for the displayed ruins next to the restaurant where Harry had eaten brunch with Julia, but he understands the point Louis is trying to make. Maybe they’ll build a new building, in New York this time, and this one will remain forever discarded, a relic of a time people aren’t able to relate to anymore, a building about the past that should remain in the past.

“Maybe,” Harry echoes.

“Well, I like the sculptures,” Louis says, “they’re, like, impressive.”

“Did you know they have names?”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, trying to recall what the guide had told him all those years ago. “I think this one” he points at the sculpture to their left, “is called, uh, ‘guarding’? Or maybe not, that’s a strange name for a sculpture. Something with ‘guard’ in it, though.”  

“What would it be guarding?” Louis asks. It’s fun, playing tourists, although they haven’t brought any touristic guide with them. Harry isn’t even sure those exist anymore, not for the cities as they are now anyway.

“The building, I guess? And maybe the city. Or the country.”

 “Wait,” Louis interrupts, getting close enough to the sculpture that he could touch it if he wanted to. “There’s something written at the base of it.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “I don’t remember that. What does it say?”

“It says,” Louis reads, in a careful tone, “Eternal vigilance is the price of Liberty.”

 “That’s a bit…”

“Foreboding? Gloomy?” Louis asks, but there’s something in his voice that suggests he doesn’t completely believe what he’s saying.

“I guess,” Harry replies. “But also…”

“Beautiful?” Louis offers, fingers caressing the inscription with reverence. “In a sad way.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees, because he’s not sure how to put what he’s feeling into words. The irony of the situation, of being there, facing a building built to help people remember, the inscription proof that what happened to the country (except it hadn’t happened to the country only, it had also happened to Harry and he had been powerless against it, unable to act, unable to fight until he met Louis) may have been, somehow, avoided, is too much to bear.

“Come on,” Louis says, sensing Harry’s sudden change of mood. “Let’s sit down on the steps. I feel kind of tired.” He probably isn’t but Harry doesn’t protest, just follows him, glad that Louis isn’t asking him to explain. The steps are cold and uncomfortable, even with Harry’s winter coat acting as a cushion, but the hardness of the stone under his body provides a welcome anchoring weight. It must be the exhaustion that pushes him, or maybe a recklessness born from the realisation that, no matter how much you try to prevent things from happening, they almost always do anyway, because he asks a question he had thought would forever remain unspoken between them.

“Can you… Can you tell me why we decided to come back?” his voice is shaking and, now that they’re not moving anymore, he can feel the cold passing through his coat and settling against his skin, trying to get under it.

“I can give you our reasons,” Louis says, in a tired tone. Harry would apologize for asking this from him, asking answers to questions that have no easy ones, if he thought apologizing would make it better. “If that’s what you want.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “I know those. I don’t... need to be reminded of them.”

“What do you want me to say, then?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry laughs, something sharp. “Like did we decide to do this because we believe in what we’re doing? Did we decide to do it for us?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“I don’t know. Can it?” Harry turns his head so that he can take Louis in. He seems small, bundled in his heavy coat, hands hidden in his pockets, shoulders hunched in an attempt to protect himself from the cold. Louis always takes so much space in Harry’s head, in Harry’s life, that Harry sometimes forget about the smaller parts of him, the ones that need to be protected and cherished, the ones that weren’t shielded from anything before he met Harry, the ones that made him go to war. “You told me once,” Harry resumes, “that you wanted a war you could win. That it was one of the reasons why you had decided to come to New York. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” Louis answers.  “Of course I do.”

 “The thing is,” Harry says, “I’m not sure there’s anything for us to win, this time. If… If someone took the care of building this sculpture and, like, engrave it with a warning and yet it still all happened how are we supposed to change anything? Or prevent anything from happening?”

“Maybe we aren’t,” Louis says. “But we can try, right? I’d like… I’d like to be able to say that I, at least, tried.”

Harry doesn’t answer, but scoots closer to Louis, letting his head fall against Louis’ shoulder. Louis takes one of his hands out from his pocket and slides his arm around Harry’s back, bringing him even closer to Louis. Everything around them has turned black and there’s something comforting in the knowledge that if someone were to pass in front of them right now, they wouldn’t be able to see them, two silhouettes merged into one, only given away by the faint tremors sometimes shaking their bodies.

“You know,” Louis begins, “English is one of the only languages that makes a distinction between story and history. European languages, I mean. I don’t know about the rest of the world.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. German only has one word for it. So does French. And Italian. But we have two.” 

Harry hums, telling Louis to go on.

“I was thinking about a title for my book, the other day. I’m not sure about it yet, it’s probably too soon to be considering one seriously, but I was hesitating between putting story or history in it. And it’s not innocent, you know? The one I choose will reflect something about how I want my book to be read.” Louis pauses for a moment, before continuing, “but it doesn’t matter what I choose if it’s translated in, say, German. They’ll use the same word in either case.”

“Why do we make the distinction then?” Harry asks, his curiosity not feigned.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a weird evolution of language. Or maybe we feel the need to say that what happened to the world isn’t the same thing as what happened to us.”

“It’s something of an artificial distinction, though, isn’t it?” Harry wonders. “We do say that we have a history with someone or something. And we do make stories out of history. It’s not as neat as language makes it out to be.”

“No, it’s not,” Louis agrees, pressing a small kiss on Harry’s temple, lips hard and cold. “But we still have two words. As if we could, somehow, draw an easy line between what’s subjective and what’s objective. I think that the other ones have it right. They recognise that it’s not as simple as it sounds and they don’t try to, like, make it simple.” His tone is pensive, almost meditative. “And maybe we decided to come back, because we understand that. We understand that some distinctions are arbitrary and that, in some cases, someone’s story is intrinsically linked to the bigger history. Sometimes, it’s the same thing.”  

There’s a memory Harry doesn’t revisit often, that he has tried to keep buried deep, but knows it isn’t, and that it wouldn’t take much for it to overwhelm him. It was a bright day, the kind of day that speaks of the end of winter, yet isn’t warm enough to qualify as a spring day. He had finished work early and was ready to go back home when someone had knocked at his door.

The rest, well. The rest is both history and a part of Harry’s story. He had sat on a plush chair, waiting to see who had summoned him, waiting to see what he would be accused of. The relief, when Ben Winston had told him he wanted Harry to work for the Government, had only lasted a few seconds before Harry realised what such a request would entail. Before he understood that he needed to run.

That was the moment, after the Elections, after the Riots, when his life had slipped through his fingers.

That’s how it goes. There are things that happen to you and you can’t do anything against them. You can rant and scream and cry but they still happened and there’s no way of going back in time and undo what has been done. It’s the sensation of powerlessness that’s really terrible. The knowledge that you’ll have to carry those things with you for as long as you live. 

So, maybe, wanting to regain agency, to fight in the only way you know of, isn’t as mad as it first appears to be. Maybe it’s the only thing one can do.

“All right,” Harry says, and it’s like a small part of the weight he had been carrying on his shoulders for so long – long before they came back – has suddenly been lifted. “All right,” he repeats. “I can get behind that.”

Louis laughs, something between amusement and relief. “It’s not so bad, eh?” he asks, nudging Harry’s shoulder with his own.

And, well. There had been all those nights spent in a lonely bed, the distance between him and Louis - Harry didn’t know how to close, or what had felt like it anyway, all the things they didn’t say. There had also been peaceful times in between, those seemingly useless moments spent lounging on the bed talking, an evening spent together on the floor of the library, a hand always ready to take his, arms always here to catch him. “It’s fine,” he settles on saying, because, above all, they endured. That’s what they did.

Louis smiles. Even though it’s somewhat tired around the edges, it’s radiating the same contentment that’s coursing through Harry’s veins. “That’s good,” he says in a gentle voice. “Also, I think it’s starting to snow.”

It is, tiny flakes that Harry would have mistaken for rain if Louis hadn’t pointed it out.

“We should probably go back to the hotel.”

“We should,” Louis agrees, but neither of them moves. “We will,” he adds, “in a minute.”

The snowflakes keep on falling, getting bigger and bigger and it must be a ridiculous sight, two men approaching their thirties pressed against each other, shivering in the night under the snow. No one would be able to tell that they’re holding a small, but unmistakable, part of history between their clasped hands.

Or, perhaps it’s just lovely.

***

When they do get back to their hotel they’re completely drenched.

“I’m not sure this was our best idea,” Louis laughs, taking his coat and shoes off first before discarding the rest of his clothes. “C’mon Haz,” he says, “get naked. We need to get under a hot shower if we don’t want to catch pneumonia or something as dreadful.”

“Yeah of course,” Harry answers. “Because that’s the only reason for you to want me to get naked.”

Louis barks out a laugh in response. 

They shower quickly, before putting on warm – and dry – clothes. Outside, the snow is still falling.

“I hope our flight won’t be cancelled,” Harry says. “They just do one per day, no?”

“I think so,” Louis answers. “But let’s not worry about that. The worst that can happen is that we stay here for a few more days. I like it here,” he adds, in a musing tone. “It’s been, uh, surprisingly nice.”

“It has,” Harry agrees. “But I’m worried about Lily and the kids.”

“The Azoffs didn’t come up with a magical solution?” Louis asks.

“No. Irving said that he would probably have some news for me by now but I haven’t heard from them.”

“Well then,” Louis shrugs. “We’ll have to think of something by ourselves, right? Don’t worry about it tonight, Haz. Let’s just… think about ourselves, for a little while.”

“Okay,” Harry answers. “I can do that.”

“I’ll order hot chocolates and we can just have a night in?” 

“Of course,” Harry replies, sitting down on an armchair in the small living room area, “that sounds great.” And it does. When was the last time they did something like that, just the two of them? A quiet night in without any pressing matters to discuss, without anything to plot or plan, without having to consider that they could be interrupted at any minute by a text summoning Louis?

“We should put on some music,” Louis says, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “It’s the only thing missing.”

“Missing for what?”

“For this to be perfect,” Louis replies, throwing a smile at Harry over his shoulder.

There’s a knock at the door and Harry goes to open it, picking up a tray with their hot chocolates on it, while Louis searches for a song to play.

“Ah,” he exclaims, as Harry puts the tray down on the coffee table. “I like this one.”

Notes coming from a piano start playing, filling up the room with a delicate sound, something almost breakable.

“What’s it called?”

“La Soledad,” Louis relies, smiling. “It means loneliness in Spanish.” The piano notes give way to another tune and someone starts singing. “Come on. Let’s dance.” Louis spreads his arms, one hand outstretched in invitation.

“What about our hot chocolates?”

“I’m sure they can wait.”

So Harry takes the few steps that separate him from Louis and entangles their fingers, while Louis’ free arm sneaks around Harry’s waist, his fingers coming to rest against the small of Harry’s back. The music is sad and melancholic and, even though Harry doesn’t understand the lyrics, the longing in the singer’s voice is enough to let him know what the song is about.

“You know, Julia asked why we weren’t married,” Harry says, pressing his cheek closer to Louis’. He hadn’t planned on broaching this particular topic, but there’s something about the way they’re swaying together to the music, alone in this nondescript hotel room, something about the music itself, that makes him do it.

“Did she?” Louis’ tone is curious, wondering.

She did. She hadn’t used those exact words, maybe, but there had been no doubt about the real intent behind her questioning. When Harry doesn’t answer Louis asks again.

“And what did you tell her?”

“Just that we weren’t,” Harry answers. “Married, I mean.”

“Okay,” Louis says, taking a step back and bringing an end to their dancing. He doesn’t move further away, though, just keeps this small distance between them and the look he levels at Harry holds the same cautious wonder his tone had. He takes a few seconds to fix his fringe and Harry doesn’t say a thing, gives them to him, those moments spent trying to find the right words.

“Is it, uh, something you want?” Louis asks, and there’s a hint of nervousness in his tone now. “Because we can, I mean. I never thought that we couldn’t.”

“No,” Harry interrupts him maybe a bit too quickly, a bit too forcefully. “No,” he repeats in a milder tone, “that’s not. That’s not what this is about.”

“What is it about, then, Haz? Because if this is about permanency you know that’s not a problem for me, do you?” 

“I know. It’s not about permanency.”

“Okay.”

“It’s about,” Harry starts, conscious that every word uttered will be important, will have to be chosen carefully. He has given everything of himself he thought he had to give to Louis, the good parts along with the bad parts, but if there’s one last piece of himself to give, one he had barely been able to formulate to himself before coming back – let alone tell Louis about – then this must be it. “It’s about how sometimes, when we were back in London, I’d go to sleep and hope that I would dream about the war.”

“Because you missed it?” Louis asks, gentle.

“Because it was… Because it was the only thing I knew for the longest time. And it ended, right? We did what we had to do, we did things that I’m proud of and things that I’d probably choose to forget if I could, but in the end we got out of it and it ended.”

“It did, Haz.”

“It just didn’t end for me,” Harry says. He doesn’t say – _it didn’t end for you either_ , but they both hear it anyway. “It’s more than missing it, I think,” and God this is hard, like pulling his own heart out of his ribcage but there’s no coming back. “It’s more than just… missing a sense of possibility. It’s,” he inhales shakily, “waking up one morning and taking the tube and thinking that it smells like iron and suddenly none of what’s happening around me makes sense. London, and being alive, and having a life, all those things don’t make sense anymore, can’t make sense. Because there’s a part of me that believes that I’m still in New York, in my flat, or in the Brooklyn flat, or at the Factory, and that all that’s happened since then has only been one long dream.” He looks up at Louis, for the first time since he’s started, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The understanding, on Louis’ face, is devastating. Still, he needs to finish, “How can I imagine a future? Most of the time, I’m not even sure about the present.” And there, this is it. The last thing he had left of himself, now resting in Louis’ clenched fists.

“I know,” Louis says, and Harry lets out a small breath of relief. Then, Louis closes the space he had put between them and takes Harry in his arms, holding him so tightly it’s almost suffocating. But it feels, sometimes, as if Harry hasn’t been able to breathe properly for years anyway so he doesn’t… He doesn’t mind. If anything, he wishes for Louis to hold him tighter.

“It will end,” Louis whispers in the crook of Harry’s neck. “I can’t tell you when, but I know it will. One day,” he presses a kiss against Harry’s jaw, “it will just be something that happened in the past. We will remember how it hurt and we won’t have forgotten how it defined and changed us but it will be… less. I can promise you that. It will be less.”

“Okay,” Harry answers, “that’s good enough.” And it is.

“About the other thing,” Louis says, still peppering Harry’s jaw with light kisses, “we can, if you want. Get married. I’d love that.”

“It would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Harry says. “Once this is… Once this is over.” He didn’t mean for it to sound like a promise but it does.

“Okay,” Louis agrees. “I’ll ask you after, then.”

And Harry hadn’t cried before but he is now, silent tears falling steadily, almost soothing in their quietness. He feels, more than he sees, Louis’ hands cupping his face and his mouth, wet and hot against his cheeks, avoiding the traces left by Harry’s tears.

“We should go to bed,” Harry says and Louis nods before resting his forehead against Harry’s.

“I love you,” Louis breathes against Harry’s mouth. It sounds a lot like _we will survive this_.

“I love you too,” Harry answers. “I’m sorry for ruining our night in.”

“Haz, please listen to me.” It’s Harry’s turn to nod, a tiny motion of the head that Louis must sense more than he see. “This thing I feel for you. I call it love, because that’s the acceptable way of putting it. But, truth to be told, I’m not sure that’s the right word for it.”

“If the word love didn’t exist, how would you call it then?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Louis huffs a laugh. “Obsession just sounds unhealthy, and passion doesn’t encompass it in any way. This thing you said, about not being able to imagine a future. I feel it too, most of the time. But there are other times, times where I get a reprieve. Where the future doesn’t seem so terrifying, where it seems like a real possibility. That I might get it. That I might keep it.”

“What?”

“My happy ending,” Louis answers and Harry remembers a similar conversation, in the Brooklyn flat, what seems like ages ago now. “If I had to put it into words,” Louis continues, voice shaking, “that’s how I would say it. You’re the possibility of a future, even when I think that there isn’t one for me.”

“A happy ending,” Harry repeats. “That’s also what you said, back in the spring.”

“Did you think the last few months would have changed that?” Louis shakes his head a little. “Because they didn’t. They never could.”

And that’s the answer to the questions Harry’s never asked, Louis’ choice made, clear and irrefutable.

_I choose you_ , Louis’ fingers whisper, caressing the anchor on Harry’s wrist. _Not the speeches, or the applause, or the accolades._ _I choose you_.

“No,” Harry answers. “I didn’t think they did.”

***

When Harry wakes up, it’s to Louis furiously typing on his phone.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I think,” Louis says, smiling, “that I have the solution to the orphanage’s problem.”

***

“We’re almost there,” Harry tells Mae. She nods but doesn’t answer. He readjusts his grip on her and her legs curl around his waist, just above his hips. It’s not a comfortable position for either of them but the walk from the house to the flat is a long one for a six-year-old. “You’ll see,” he continues, “it’s a nice place. Maybe a bit small but hopefully you won’t have to stay there long.”

Despite her silence, he knows that she’s listening to every word of his monologue as he tells her about the flat he once called home.  The city is dark and silent around them and, despite having been back for months now, it’s still when it’s like this that he loves it the most, when he can hear the sounds of his footstep reverberating in the stillness of the night, when the city seems to belong to him and him only.

He turns around to check that Lily and the kids are still following him, before turning back to Mae. Her fingers are playing with his curls and he smiles. When they reach the building he lets out a sigh of relief. It’s not over yet, they still have to wait for Louis, Julia and the second group of children to arrive, but they’re halfway there.

He puts Mae down, offering her his hand to help her climb the stairs. She takes it without hesitating, and the wordless gesture of trust makes his heart clench.

“We’re here,” he says out loud, letting his voice carry down the stairs.

“I’m surprised they haven’t turned it into a museum or something similar,” Lily says from behind him.

Harry chuckles. “I guess there are still places that are secret. I don’t think even Simon knew where we lived, during the war.”

“If you say so.”

“I wouldn’t… We wouldn’t have brought you here if we didn’t believe it was safe,” Harry says.

Lily sighs. “I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s been a long few weeks.”

Harry doesn’t ask but he can imagine. Living in fear of something happening can be worse than it actually happening. The wait for something terrible to come to pass is enough to drive the strongest of people mad.

“There are three bedrooms,” Harry says, deviating the conversation toward more practical matters. “All quite big. And the living room, of course. It will be crowded but you’ll be safe. There’s... There’s a playground not far from here. I think the kids would like it.”

“Harry,” Lily starts before stopping, searching for the right words. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do all this.”

Harry smiles, averting his eyes. Mae is still standing next to him, watching the both of them curiously. He ruffles her hair.

“I think I did.”


	7. 6.

“What does all this love amount to?”

Richard Siken, “The painting that includes all painting”, in  _War of the foxes_.

Irving was right. In the end, it’s an easy plan to carry out.

It starts with hints. A thorough article in a lesser-known, but rather well thought-of publication, detailing the issue of the war orphans left alone to live on the streets. A sensationalized story in a newspaper about a homeless kid rescuing an old lady and how she had invited him back to her home, offering him shelter for a little while. A tear-jerking piece in a weekly magazine about children trying to get in touch with the remaining members of their family who had fled the country during the war.

There are only a few, in the beginning, until such reports become a daily thing, until there’s no way for anyone to stay unaware of the topic. Harry would appreciate the artfulness of it all, the way no one would be able to tell that all those articles, almost unrelated at first, are building up to the same big story, if so much wasn’t hanging in the balance.

Still, he collects all the ones he can find, cutting them out of the papers and putting them away in a folder. There’s not much point to it except for the feeling of having a hold over what’s happening, as feeble and precarious as it is.

“What was this one about?” Louis asks, one night. So Harry tells him.

“I’m not even sure it’s true,” he adds, after recounting the story, because it seems important to, somehow, acknowledge this.

“I don’t think the truth has much to do with it,” Louis says. “Not when it’s all just a means to an end.”

“I think,” Harry says, “that we’re getting close. They can’t keep those stories in the press for much longer. Not at such a pace, anyway.”

“So we still don’t know when it’s happening?”

“No,” Harry shrugs. “Maybe they’re afraid we might give it away.”

Louis hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t reply.  Harry takes advantage of the small lull in the conversation to put the folder back under the bed, before lying down next to Louis. Louis’ gaze is trained on the ceiling and he’s frowning, as if trying to solve a problem that keeps resisting him.

“What is it?” Harry asks, in a manner that conveys Louis doesn’t have to answer if he doesn’t want to.

“This whole thing,” Louis sighs, “it’s not just about us, you know? But we’re right in the middle of it and sometimes I forget. That it’s not truly about us.”

He’s right. They’re merely pawns in the middle of a much bigger game. Or maybe they’re something a bit different. Something more akin to wild cards.

“All those things they said,” Louis continues, “That they keep saying, in the press. About us. It makes it hard to remember that it’s nothing, uh, personal. That if it hadn’t been us, it would have been someone else.”

It’s not about them. Except when, of course, it is.

“Would it have been easier?” Harry wonders. “To do what Niall and Liam did?” To watch it all happen from the sidelines, not quite uninvolved but not involved enough that they could get hurt.

“That’s not an easy question to answer, Haz.” Louis turns on his side, knees almost pressed against his chest in a childlike position, but the look he levels at Harry is intent and searching, almost too much. It takes some strength not to recoil, not to give in the impulse to shield himself.

Harry has nothing to hide and he stays laid bare, exposed. They’re not touching, but it’s almost more intimate than any touch could be, Louis’ gaze a physical force against Harry’s skin, and he shivers. One of Louis’ hands comes to rest against Harry’s hipbone, gentle but firm. Harry closes his eyes, letting out a fragile sigh.

“D’you remember the play?” he asks, not opening his eyes. “The French play I told you about?”

“Sure,” Louis answers. “Not an easy thing to forget.”

“It was never played during the author’s life.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t write it for it to be played. The story was too long and too complicated,” Harry explains. “It wasn’t even written to be, like, historically accurate. He wrote it because, at the time, the country had just gone through a revolution that had failed and he wanted to write about that. There was censorship, though, so he wrote an unplayable play, set in 16th century Florence. In the real version of events, the hero doesn’t die. He lives a few more years in exile.”

“So he survives,” Louis repeats. “But it’s still a defeat.” 

“Depending on how you look at it. Some would say surviving is the greatest victory.” Harry opens his eyes again, taking Louis in.

He’s so used to it now that he almost doesn’t register it anymore, the exhaustion that has etched itself on Louis’ features. Yet, in this moment, Harry forces himself to pay attention to it, to the new lines on Louis’ forehead, the dark circles under his eyes. It’s an exhaustion that isn’t born from a lack of sleep or being overworked, it’s something deeper than that.

Harry extends a hand, his fingertips tracing the wrinkles at the corner of Louis’ mouth. His lips twitch but he doesn’t stop Harry, keeps looking at him. He looks older now and Harry is more than fine with that.

Survival shouldn’t be something easily forgotten or discarded. It should leave a mark.

It has.

***

Harry’s out on a walk when the news breaks. Or, that’s what he gathers when comes back to his flat only to be met by a crowd of journalists and photographers waiting for him in front of his building. He thinks about turning back and taking another walk, a longer one this time, but it’s already too late.

“Mr Styles,” one of them shouts, tone fuelled with victory at having spotted Harry. “Mr Styles, what do you have to say about the news? Is it true you helped all those children?”

“Harry,” another one yells, a woman’s voice this time. “Did Louis know about this? Are you two breaking up? Are you coming back to take your belongings out of the flat?”

“Mr Styles, Mr Styles,” and the questions seem to be coming from all around him now, barely discernible in the confusion created by so many voices directed toward him, “what are Malik, Payne and Horan’s stance on this? We haven’t seen you together in months. Do they still support your actions?” 

Harry’s phone pings, a small noise somehow breaking through the chaos.

**_Don’t move. Don’t answer. A car will be there in a few minutes._ **

He doesn’t reply. He closes his eyes and inhales, trying to make abstraction of the cacophony surrounding him.

His phone pings again.

**_Get in the car._ **

Harry turns around to find himself looking at a car that’s as black and as nondescript as the one that had been waiting for him after his dinner with the Azoffs. A door opens slightly, not allowing the journalists in the distance to see who’s inside and Harry climbs into the car, closing the door behind him as quickly as possible.

He’s about to let his head fall against the backseat, when a brief glance to his left brings to his attention that he’s not alone with the driver. It shouldn’t be a surprise, considering the texts, but the past ten minutes have been kind of surreal and he’s not even sure what has happened. He tilts his head to the left and that’s when the whole situation manages to get even more surreal.

“Hey,” Niall greets him, a tight but not unwarm smile dancing at the edge of his mouth.

“Oh,” Harry answers, dumbfounded, as the pieces of the puzzle all fall into place.

“I don’t have to explain then, I guess?” Niall asks but it doesn’t sound like a question.

“You, uh, you play golf with the Azoffs?” he replies instead, saying the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Yeah. That’s how we met, actually.”

“Ah.” Harry looks down at his phone, unable to reconcile the sparse texts coming from _Sporty Spice_ with the reality of Niall sitting next to him. “Where are we going?”

“Just around town,” Niall answers. “We’ll leave them enough time to scatter and hope that they won’t need any incentive.”

“Is this a thing you do? Give people incentive?” He’s not aiming at rude, isn’t aiming at anything. He’s lost. It’s not betrayal, this foreign feeling tightening his throat, and it’s not anger. It’s more akin to waking up, one ordinary morning, to look at yourself in the mirror for what feels like the first time in ages and realising that you don’t really know the person who’s looking back at you, nor do you really like them.

Niall shrugs. “I do what needs to be done.”

“Why now?”

“I was in the neighbourhood.” It’s said with a laugh. “It didn’t make much sense to let you stay in, uh, a difficult situation just to keep a cover up. Not when we’re so close to the end.” Then, more seriously. “Harry, I’m…”

“No,” Harry cuts him off, shaking his head. “Please don’t. I have questions and I’m not sure I understand everything. But don’t apologize. Not for this.”

“Okay,” Niall agrees and relief courses through Harry at his easy acceptance of what Harry needs right now. “You can ask whatever you want.”

So Harry does.

When did he meet the Azoffs? _A few years ago_. When did he start working for them? _Just before the one-year anniversary of the end of the war. And it’s with them, not for them._   Do Zayn and Liam know? _No._ Why didn’t he tell Louis and Harry?

“For the same reasons you never took me up on my offer,” Niall replies in an even tone but Harry knows him well enough that he’s able to discern a hint of hurt. “I had my part to play and it wasn’t safe.”

It’s Harry’s turn to apologize. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “There are times where I wanted to call you and talk to you but I…”

“I know,” Niall reassures him. “We all did what we had to do. And Harry…”

“Yes?”

The way Niall looks at him is both serious and a tad sad, but there’s no trace of anger etched on his features. “What you did was incredibly brave.”

Harry nods in acquiescence and they fall silent after that. Doing the brave thing doesn’t mean they didn’t hurt each other in the process. That there aren’t things he wishes he could undo. But it’s a useless way of thinking, thankfully interrupted by Niall saying,

“Looks like they’re gone, for now.”

Harry looks out the window to see that they’re back in front of the building, now devoid of journalists and photographers.

“You should keep a low profile for the next few days, at least,” Niall continues. “Don’t go out. Don’t answer any calls that aren’t from me or the Azoffs. If you need anything, text me okay?”

“Okay,” Harry agrees.

“It’s, uh. I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse, before it gets better. Hang in there, please?”

“I will.”

“And please, give Louis my best.”

It’s not a small thing, giving Harry the explicit permission to tell Louis about this. Niall knows them both and knows that Harry would have done it anyway, but it still means something and it’s enough for him to breathe a little easier. _No more lies. Not between us, at least._

As he exits the car, after hugging Niall, and crosses the small distance that separates him from the entrance of his building, the thought blooms into Harry’s mind, both fragile and hopeful that this, all this, could finally be coming to an end.

*** 

The second wave of articles hits them the next morning.

There’s a knock on their door, at dawn, and when Harry opens it it’s to find Niall, carrying a stack of what looks like newspapers in one hand and three cups of coffee in the other one, all balanced in an expert manner.

“You’re under siege,” are Niall’s first words.

“Come on in,” Harry answers. “What’s happening?”

“This,” Niall says, nodding in direction of the bunch of newspapers he’s just deposited on the coffee table. He places the coffees next to them.

“Niall, hey,” Louis says, coming in the living room and hugging Niall as if this scene is nothing out of the ordinary. As if he hadn’t glanced down, briefly, the day before, as Harry was recounting him his drive with Niall and what he had learned, caught between hurt and the knowledge that he wasn’t allowed to feel hurt. As if he hadn’t spent the better part of the night opening his contacts on his phone and closing them again, fingertips lingering on the letter ‘z’.

Harry picks up the paper resting on top of the pile and it doesn’t take him long to understand what Niall was talking about.

“So,” he sums up. “Me and Louis hate each other now?”

“It would appear so,” Niall replies, taking a sip of his coffee. He grimaces. “Too hot.”

“Why?” Harry asks.

It’s Louis who answers. “Because,” he says, tone more distasteful than angry, “the orphanage story has less value if people think it’s just a petty war between the two of us. And that’s what they’ll think,” he adds, unequivocal, “because that’s how it’s presented to them.”

“So. What should we do?” Harry asks, sitting down on the sofa next to Louis, close enough that their thighs are brushing, even though the question is aimed at Niall.

“Nothing. You don’t speak to the press, you don’t answer questions. This is the Government’s counter attack and if it’s all they have, then we let them have it.”

“Couldn’t we at least release a statement?” Harry wonders out loud.

Niall shakes his head at Harry’s words. “Everything we do in response to this will distract the focus from the main story,” he explains. “The best course of action is to ignore it. We’ll let a few days pass, then push the orphanage story in the press again. Let the rumours about you fade away.” 

Harry turns to look at Louis who nods slowly.

“So, what should we do then?” Louis asks. “Except for not talking to the press.”

“Drink your coffee. It’s going to get cold. And stay here, there’s nothing else for you to do. It’s too dangerous for you to go back out there, Louis. We don’t think they would try to harm you but better safe than sorry.”

“Until the New Elections?”

“Until then,” Niall repeats. “Congratulations,” he says, raising his cup of coffee in a toast-like gesture, as if it were a glass of the finest champagne. “You’re no longer spies.”

The coffee, when Harry tastes it, is bitter and on the verge of too cold. He swallows it all anyway.

***

“So, I’m the villain,” Louis declares, sipping a glass of actual champagne. Niall had only been gone for half an hour when Harry had decided that they might as well get properly drunk on champagne, if they were going to celebrate the abrupt ending to their spying career.

They’re sitting on the floor, papers discarded around them and Harry is one flute of champagne away from suggesting that they should make a drinking game out of the articles. One sip for every time the word “betrayal” is written. One sip for every “trouble in paradise.” One sip for every “former power couple.” Eyeing the empty bottle of champagne, he considers that he may be drunker than he thought he was.

“You are,” Harry giggles in reply. “What does it make me then?” he wonders. “The, uh, angel? No,” he frowns, “angels aren’t the opposite of villains. Angels can be bad too. Like that one… What was his name again?”

“Lucifer?” Louis suggests.

“Lucifer, that’s right! Lucifer was a villain. So I’m not an angel.”

“No,” Louis replies, expression thoughtful. “If I’m the villain, then that makes you the hero.”

“Right!” Harry exclaims. “I’m the hero. I threw a dinner party, that was, like, pretty heroic considering the people we had to invite,” he says, raising one finger up as if to keep count. “And I had brunches. A lot of them. With a lot of rich, old, grumpy people.” He wiggles the rest of his fingers, trying to convey that it was, truly, a lot of brunches. “And I… What else did I do, Lou? There must be something else.” He expects Louis to play along, to keep the joke running but, despite his words making a valiant effort at it, the look Louis sends him is empty.

“You also had a lot of dinners. Those must have been pretty heroic too.”

“Are you all right?” Harry asks, sobering up just enough to realise that it’s something of a useless question to ask someone who is drinking champagne at eleven in the morning.

“Well,” Louis says, avoiding Harry’s gaze and looking down at his glass, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think I’ll miss being a spy.”

“No?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Can’t say I liked it very much.”

“No,” Harry agrees. “Neither did I.”

***

Niall wasn’t exaggerating when he’d said that they were under siege. When asked how he’d managed to get to them without being detected, though, he’d shrugged and replied that he has his ways. Harry left it at that.

The journalists don’t leave, this time around. Like a hound who has scented blood, who knows that it’s on the right path, they stay at the bottom of the building and wait. It’s hard to know what they’re waiting for, if they do believe in what they’ve written and linger in hope of a scoop or, if this too, is part of the same orchestrated story, nothing more than a show.

Truth is, it doesn’t matter. They’re still unable to leave the flat. Harry tries opening the window, once, to go out on the terrace only to be greeted with a sudden deflagration of flashes before retreating inside. After that, he leaves the windows closed.

When it becomes clear that they won’t get what they want from Harry – or Louis – in person, their phones start ringing and don’t stop for the longest time. At some point Harry texts Niall, asking for him to send them new phones and turns theirs off. The new phones arrive the next day and no one calls them on those.

Everything around them seems to get more silent. Their steps echo against the hardwood floor of the flat, their voices carry a bit too much strength when they speak to each other. They don’t start whispering but Harry thinks that it wouldn’t take much for them to. In an attempt at distracting himself Louis gets back to writing his book and Harry – well.

Harry is well aware of the irony of their current situation. For all the loneliness of the past six months, he and Louis barely had the time to be lonely together. For Harry – it had been days occupied with various brunches and dinners, the work at the orphanage. For Louis – meetings upon meetings, at dawn or at dusk, never quite being able to rest, always waiting for a call that would summon him out of the flat, out of Harry’s reach. Now that they’re not so lonely anymore, that they don’t have to lie to everyone around them, their confinement to the flat is bringing upon them a new kind of loneliness. One stemming from boredom, this time. One closer to madness.

At first, spending days together secluded behind closed doors is somewhat reminiscent of their time in the Brooklyn penthouse. It’s not hard, to recall those days. Harry’s memories of them are all littered with visions of sunny April afternoons, of light streaming through the ever-open window of the kitchen, where he used to spend most of his time. In his mind, the memories contrast with their time at the Factory, where even the late August haze he knows they lived through has been erased by an infinite amount of memories of cold November skies and rainy days.

The comparison with their first weeks together in Brooklyn, filled with the heady feeling of getting to know someone else intimately, of never being able to get enough of them, is limited, though. Those days had been full of anticipation – planning, and scheming, and trying to see what they could do to make themselves known to a bigger rebel group. Now, they’re still waiting, still aware that something will change soon, but they have little control over what’s going to happen. They can only watch things unfold, from a distance, and hope that what they did was enough.

Neither of them has ever been good at waiting.

“You know,” Louis says, one night, eyeing an assortment of cakes Harry has baked during the day to keep himself occupied, “I think that’s our answer, right here.”

“Hmm?” Harry mumbles in response, trying to decide if Niall could be persuaded to come and get the cakes to bring them to Lily and the children.

“We couldn’t have just stayed away and watched things happen. I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” Harry says, turning his attention away from the cakes and focusing on Louis. It’s going to be that kind of conversation.

“And, apparently, neither could Niall.”

It’s the first time Louis has broached the topic and Harry isn’t sure what he’s supposed to answer. If Louis is even expecting an answer.

“Do you... do you resent him?” In the end, he decides that he may as well cut to the heart of the matter.

“Do you?” Louis returns. When Harry stays silent he laughs in this harsh way that’s only directed at himself. “No,” he answers, agreeing with Harry’s silence. “That would be hypocritical of us, wouldn’t it? Can I taste this one?” he adds, pointing at a chocolate cake. Harry nods, silent. Now doesn’t seem like the right time to bring up his plan of having Niall come and take them away. “No,” Louis repeats, cutting a small slice of the cake and taking a delicate bite. “I think I’m more jealous than resentful. I’m not sure that makes it better, though.” He lowers his gaze to focus on the cake he’s just eaten. “This is really good, Haz.”

“Jealous?” Harry asks, refusing to let himself get distracted by the compliment.

“That he managed to succeed where we failed,” Louis replies, giving up on the pretence. “It’s like,” he exhales, a harsh noise in the otherwise silent kitchen, “he got out of this unscathed, you know? Like he did it better than us.”

“Maybe,” Harry says. “But you can’t know that unless you ask him.”

“You know I won’t,” Louis mutters, a quiet admission. He puts the rest of the slice of cake back on the plate and opens the fridge, taking a bottle of beer out of it. He glances at Harry in question and Harry shrugs. Louis takes out a second bottle of beer and sets it down on the kitchen island in front of Harry. And then. Here it is.

“Are we guilty?” Louis asks, voice unwavering.

Harry doesn’t make him elaborate.

“We made a choice. And we saw it through to its end, whatever that may be. I think,” he adds, “that’s all you can ever do. We’re not...We’re not guilty of what has been done to us.” 

“If not guilt, how would you call it then?”

“Responsibility, maybe. Or duty.” Harry doesn’t say, _necessity_. “But not guilt.”

“Okay,” Louis acknowledges. One of his hands is resting on top of the kitchen island, almost in invitation, and Harry covers it with his own, entwining their fingers. It’s a feeble attempt at comfort, but it’ll have to be enough for now.

So that’s how the last few weeks before the New Elections pass. They don’t scream, they don’t go mad in the oppressive silence of their flat. They don’t start talking to themselves.

  
At some point, the journalists go away and they decide to turn their usual phones back on. Harry goes through the small amount of texts he has received – one from his mother, one from Lily – and deletes all the unanswered calls from unknown numbers. They still don’t leave the flat.

_You need to let it fade away_ , Niall had said, but it seems more like they’re the ones fading away. After a while, even that stops bothering Harry.

He looks up at Louis to find him frowning at his laptop, seemingly typing and erasing a sentence over and over again. The curtains of the library are drawn shut and Harry shifts in his armchair, folding his legs under his bum so that he’s more comfortable, before looking back down at his book.

If there’s nothing else to do but wait until they reach the finish line, then Harry is intent on them doing it to the best of their abilities. It doesn’t matter if they don’t like it, if they wish they could be out there, acting.

They’re both playing to win.

*** 

“Let’s go out,” Louis declares, dumping Harry’s coat next to where he’s sitting on the sofa. Before Harry can answer he also dumps a pair of Harry’s gloves, as if to say that he’s come prepared.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks.

Louis shrugs in a deliberate attempt at looking casual. “It’s our last night, Haz. What does it matter if we go out tonight? It all ends tomorrow anyway.” He adds a flourishing gesture of the hand at the end of his sentence as if to convey how little it matters.

Harry doesn’t need much incentive but he still plays his part. “It could be dangerous.”

They haven’t talked about what would happen to them if they lost, haven’t even dared formulate the thought. They probably would have to flee the country as soon as possible. There will be no mercy for the losing side and especially not for them. What has kept them safe until now has been their own orchestrated discretion and the threat of the scandal their complete disappearance would create.

“I know,” is Louis’ answer to Harry’s half-formed interrogations. He shrugs again.  “Please?”

So Harry gets up, putting on his coat and the gloves. Louis smiles and passes him a scarf that Harry hadn’t realised he was holding in his hands.

“Where do you want to go?” Harry asks. 

“I don’t know. I don’t care. Just out.”

The night air is cold and almost intoxicating. Harry just stands there, just out of the building and inhales big breaths of fresh air. When they do start walking it’s silent between them, the both of them relishing the feeling of being out after weeks of confinement. It’s heady and Harry finds himself chuckling into the night, out of pure unaltered joy. Louis’ clear high-pitched laugh joins his.

“Still no destination?” Harry asks after a while.

“Not really. I was, uh. I was going a bit mad, back there.” The way Louis says it, as if it’s some kind of new information and not something Harry knows intimately, is both a gentle confession, and sort of heartbreaking.

“You know,” Harry says when it becomes clear that this isn’t a topic they’re going to explore further tonight, “we’re not that far from where I first lived when I arrived in the city.”

“Really?” Louis replies. “How was it?”

“Cramped,” Harry answers with a laugh.

“And the city? How was the city?”

“It was… alive,” Harry says, thoughtful. “Not like… Not like it is now,” he adds, gesturing at the empty streets. “Now it’s like it’s trying to be alive, during the day at least, but you can see that it still hasn’t completely recovered.” He doesn’t say out loud that he thinks maybe it never will – and that’s fine. They all bear the scars, more or less visible, of what happened, New York included.

“Sometimes I wish I knew how it was like before.” There’s something wistful in Louis’ tone, a gentle kind of longing. “But that’s all I have,” he says, smiling wryly at Harry. Which isn’t true. He has Harry and Harry’s memories.

So Harry tells him about what he remembers, the tiny things, the ones you don’t read about in tourist travel guides, the smells at every corner of every street, the never-ending noise, how busy it always seemed to be.

“I’ll miss it, I think,” Louis says when Harry’s words begin to dwindle.

Harry almost replies that they don’t have to go back to London, but it would be an empty promise. He doesn’t know that.

It’s an odd thing, one that doesn’t happen often. Living in a time in between and being aware of it, aware that you’re at the end of something and at the start of something new. It’s here, lingering between them, the knowledge that, whatever happens tomorrow, their lives are going to change. It’s not unsurprising that this consciousness should come to them in the heart of the night, in those hours between two and four am, when everything feels more frail and more delicate than at any other time, when the world seems to be blooming with endless possibilities.

Instead of making promises he’s not sure he could keep, Harry takes a few quick steps forward and stops, turning around to face Louis. Harry closes the small distance between them and the feeling that the world is full of unknown possibilities shrinks, until those possibilities are only blossoming between the two of them. Harry’s hands close behind Louis’ neck, the hair at the nape of it soft under his gloved palms.

The kiss is gentle and unhurried, at first, as if they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do. Louis’ lips part under Harry’s and it goes on like this, a light press of the lips, something both tender and fragile. Louis lets out a breathy noise, at some point, and the kiss turns hungrier, wetter.

“What was that for?” Louis murmurs, when they break the kiss.

“Can’t it be just because?” Harry replies. He’s not sure how to put what he’s feeling into words, even though he knows that Louis feels it too.

“Of course it can,” Louis says. “But it wasn’t, was it?”

“It’s ending,” Harry says. A simple way to put it but, at least, not untrue.

“Yes,” Louis agrees. “It is.”

There’s no way of articulating the myriad of questions battling inside Harry’s throat, about what’s going to happen tomorrow, about their future, so he doesn’t even try. He kisses Louis again, pressing their bodies close together, as close as two people can be, hoping that what he’s trying to say in such a clumsy way, with his whole body, will be understood.

The way Louis kisses him back, desperate and a bit mad, is enough to tell him that Louis does.

***

“Thirty minutes left before the results,” a voice shouts, managing to break through the cacophony of noises created by thirty or so people all gathered in the same reunion room.

Harry’s eyes skim over the room, seeking Louis out, but Louis is nowhere to be found. Instead, he catches Irving’s gaze, standing in the middle of the room, Jeff next to him. A small circle of people surrounds them, only a few Harry doesn’t know. Irving makes a brief motion with his hand, inviting Harry to come near him.

“Harry, hello!” Irving greets him. “I’m sorry we didn’t have time to talk before, you know how it goes. Everybody,” he adds, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder in a father-like gesture, “this is Harry Styles. He’s been essential in what appears to be our victory.”

Harry smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hello,” he throws, not aiming at anyone in particular. “Do you know where Louis is?” he adds in a lower voice, this time directed at Irving only.

“I asked Louis to run an errand for me,” Irving answers, in the same low tone. “I trust that’s all right?”

Harry nods, reaching in the pocket of his suit jacket to get his phone out. And yeah, there it is, a text from Louis telling him that he had to leave but will be back as soon as he can.

“TWENTY MINUTES,” the same voice yells.

Harry doesn’t think there’s anyone left in the room that doesn’t know they’re winning. Or that’s what the first polls that came in an hour before said, at least. They are still waiting for the official results. And he understands the need to make a show out of it, the ceremony of it all, he just wishes Louis were there, next to him, for those last moments. Apparently, it’s not going to happen.

**_I love you_** , he texts back. It looks out of place under Louis’ perfunctory text but Louis will see when it was sent and will understand what it meant.

Harry puts his phone back in his pocket and glances back up, schooling his features in a pleasant expression. He adds a hint of hopefulness to it, playing the same game they all are. It dawns on him that he’s better at it than most people in the room and he smiles wider, to himself, this time.

“Essential to the victory, uh?” a man in the circle asks, doubtful. Irving and Jeff have moved on to another circle of supporters, leaving Harry all alone with them. “I don’t remember seeing you at many meetings.”

“No we didn’t see you, did we?” a woman standing very close to the man adds, nodding approvingly at her companion’s jibe. “Although we do know all about you. Hard not to considering how much the papers love talking about you.”

“So?” he first man tries again, trying to get a rise out of Harry.

“FIFTEEN MINUTES.”

Harry flutters his eyelashes, once, in a shy manner before mimicking a nervous smile.

“Oh,” he says, “I’m afraid you wouldn’t know anything about what we did, no. Only a very small amount of people knew.”

“Knew what?” the woman’s tone is caught between annoyed and curious and Harry’s smile turns a bit feral. 

“That we were spies.”

***

“Interesting choice of venue for a celebratory party,” Harry says when Jeff is close enough that he knows he’ll be heard.

Jeff takes a few more steps toward Harry before stopping and shrugging. “What can I say? We do have a flare for drama.” There’s nothing apologetic in his tone.

“It’s a nice ballroom,” Harry acknowledges. “And a nice hotel.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t think I’ve congratulated you yet,” Harry continues. “Congratulations on winning the campaign,” he says, offering him one hand.

Jeff shakes it and smiles in response in a sincere way that makes him look younger. “Thank you,” he repeats. “But I didn’t come to find you for that.”

“No?”

“No. My father wants you to come with us on stage for our Victory Speech. We owe you,” he adds after a moment of silence.

“Do I have a choice?”

 “You’ve always had,” Jeff replies and, well. That’s not untrue.

They make their way to the stage, stopping from time to time to accept congratulations from small groups of people. Harry waits by Jeff’s side. This isn’t his moment but it’s what he’s been working towards for the past six months and it’s still _something_ , to hear the relief in people’s voices, the hope, the joy. It’s something to remember.

“Harry, Jeff!” Irving exclaims when they reach the stage. “Please come on up. We’re going to start in a few minutes. We’re just waiting for… Ah!”

Harry turns around, following Irving’s gaze to see Louis entering the ballroom and walking to position himself next to Liam. Louis’ eyes find his and some of the tension Harry had been carrying, since he’d learnt Louis left, drains out of his body. Louis smiles at him, bright and joyous and it becomes real. Here, standing on a stage, in the same room where Ben Winston had demanded they become poster boys for the Former Government’s campaign, he allows himself to think it and believe it.

_We won. It’s over_.

Then, Irving starts speaking.

“First of all, I want to thank you all for believing enough in us that you cleared up your schedules and could be here tonight.” The crowd lets out a laugh. “I’ve lived through my fair share of campaigns and I can say without any hesitation that this one was the hardest I’ve ever had to lead.  There are a few reasons for that.” He pauses, giving the crowd some time to register his words. “First,” Irving continues, “the circumstances. Our country was at war for a long time and is still healing from what has been done to it. But, and that’s the second reason, it’s been healing badly. In our haste to go back to a normal life after the war, we elected people who didn’t have the country’s best interests at heart. Who only cared about their own interests. Their own ability to gain power.

“For me to be here tonight, able to say these words to you, and that you should be here to hear them means much more than winning a campaign. It means that we can start to set our country on the right path. That we can start to heal as we should have done two years ago. That, maybe, we have learned some lessons from the past.”

The crowd starts applauding, quietly at first then louder and louder. Irving waits for it to die down, bearing the serenity of someone who knows they’ve earned what is given to them.

“Thank you,” he says after a while. “Thank you very much. There are a few other people I should thank too. First my son, Jeff, who will be in charge of forming our New Government and who will lead it with me.” Jeff bows slightly at that. “Then, I want to thank two young men, without whom neither me nor my son would be standing in front of you today. One of them is standing beside me. Harry,” he says, turning toward him, “thank you for your work. And, of course, I want to thank his partner, Louis Tomlinson.” He nods in direction of Louis and all the eyes in the room focus on him. Louis lowers his head, but Harry can tell from the faint flush spreading across his cheeks that he’s pleased. “They may have had the hardest role to play and they did play it in a brilliant manner. Not once did they cave. For that, thanks again.”

The list of names goes on and Harry’s attention starts wandering. His gaze falls on Mrs Howell, on the other side of the room, and she nods at him in wordless acknowledgement. They’re all gathered here, as they should be, the people he’s fought next to, those who believed in him and Louis – he smiles at Lily and Julia – and those who didn’t. He doesn’t resent any of them.

In this moment, this very brief moment in time, they all stand united, relishing in the consciousness of having accomplished the same goal. It’s more than enough.

“Lastly,” and, at that, Harry focuses his attention on Irving’s speech again, “I need to inform you that various members of the now Former Government have been charged with misappropriation of public money, amongst other things, and are currently detained. There will be Trials. I can’t promise you that everything will run smoothly, or that it will be easy, but I can promise you this.  We will strive, with everything we have, to do better than those who came before us. Thank you.”

Harry doesn’t leave Irving the time to be swept aside by the crowd.

“I need to talk to him,” he whispers.

“To Louis?” Irving asks, confused. “I think he’s somewhere in the room.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “To Simon. He’s here, isn’t he? That’s where you sent Louis earlier. To go and fetch him?”

“Ah,” Irving says. “I should have known. Yes, he’s here. Are you sure you want to speak to him now?”

Harry doesn’t bother replying.

“Right,” Irving sighs. “Jeff will bring you to him.”

“Thank you.”

***

The place where they put Simon is a simple conference room, not worth any notice except for the man sitting on a chair in the middle of it, hands cuffed behind his back. It’s an odd view, almost unnerving. How human Simon seems to be in his powerlessness. How vulnerable.

Harry takes a deep breath and sits down on the chair that has been set for him in front of Simon.

“Hello,” he says, because he’s not sure how to do this. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to accomplish by talking to Simon, only that this may be his last chance to. And he needs answers.

“Ah, Harry,” Simon replies. “I was expecting you.” It’s hard to tell if he’s sincere or if it’s just the generic answer of someone still trying to pretend they have any modicum of control over the situation. Not that it matters. “What can I do for you?” he adds, in a derisive tone.

“You knew didn’t you?” Harry says. “That we were both working against you?” Because that’s the one thing he can think of that makes it all make sense. Dan’s verbal attack during the Factory memorial inauguration, the endless stream of articles in the press painting Harry as hungry for power, from the very first interview he had done with Louis that had ended being about him alone, to the last ones that had resulted in them not being able to leave their flat for weeks.

“Of course I did,” Simon acknowledges. “Did you think you could come back and spy on me without me being aware of it? No,” he laughs. “I knew. I always did.”

“Always?” Harry asks, remembering how it had tormented him, at nights, not being able to pinpoint the moment when they had failed, not knowing what had given them away.

“Your little conference with the Azoffs, back in the spring. It was in this very same hotel wasn’t it? Of course it was,” he adds, more for himself than for Harry. “They’re the kind to do that. Well,” he says, looking at Harry again, “I’m afraid you were overheard by someone loyal to me.”

“Why did you still hire us for your campaign, then?”

“Have you never heard of ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’ Harry?”

Harry doesn’t answer.

“See,” Simon continues, taking Harry’s silence for a lack of understanding, “you don’t get what I did, because you don’t understand necessity.” Somehow, despite being handcuffed and rendered powerless, Simon still manages to look down on Harry. 

“You know,” Harry replies in the most pleasant voice he can muster, “you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“And who was the other one?” Simon asks.

“Jeff Azoff,” and there’s a sense of satisfaction rushing through Harry’s body when a distasteful expression appears on Simon’s face. It doesn’t last long, though.

“Well”, he replies. “I guess I can give him that. He’s a politician. He understands these things.”

“Do you remember us?” Harry asks. And maybe that’s why he came here today. To ask this one, unequivocal, question. “When we were at the Factory I mean. Do you remember us at the Factory?” He’s not sure he’s making sense but, if Simon is unsettled by what Harry’s asking him, he doesn’t let it show.

“I do,” he answers – and there’s a softness to his voice that makes Harry want to scream.

“How?” he asks instead, unrelenting. “How do you remember us?”

“Like a chance at winning,” is Simon’s answer and it breaks something in Harry he didn’t know existed, yet alone could be broken. “You were very young and I didn’t like it,” Simon adds, as if to soften the blow. “But that’s what you were to me and that’s how I remember you. It’s not what you wanted to hear, is it?” he laughs.

“I don’t know what I wanted to hear,” Harry replies, which is truthful enough.

“It’s like I said,” Simon continues, unbothered by Harry’s answer. “You don’t understand necessity. You came here because you thought I had answers for you, but I don’t. Or not the ones you’d want to hear anyway. Nothing simple. See, you only saw this country at war and, truth is, things are simple during war. Not so much during peace.” It’s a well-honed speech and Harry wonders if Simon has been waiting for this moment, the perfect opportunity to deliver it or already has, again and again, trying to convince others of the truth of what he’s saying. “You’ll never be able to know who planted what in the press, what came from our side and what came from the Azoffs’. You were played, from the very beginning. I used you to win, but then again, so did they.”

“Do you believe I don’t know that?” Harry asks in return. He laughs, “Is that it? Your big reveal? Because it doesn’t matter. What I know is something even more important than necessity.”

“What is it?”

“Survival.”

“Ah.”

Simon doesn’t add anything, and it’s enough for Harry to know that he doesn’t understand what Harry is talking about. That he, maybe, never has.

There’s something in his expression, a stubborn kind of defiance that finally allows Harry to grasp what sort of man he is. People like Simon don’t believe they can lose. On the contrary, they believe that they’ll always manage to get away with anything, that they’ll always be able to get out of anything unscathed. _Well_ , Harry thinks, _not this time_.

“You didn’t do what you did because of some higher political ideal,” Harry says out loud. “You did it for you. Because you didn’t believe you could lose. I feel sorry for you.”

There are still questions Harry could ask. _Why did you keep Louis by your side? What did you want from him? In the end, was it worth it? What you tried doing to us? What you almost did to Lily and the kids?_ But, truth is, he can probably answer all those questions by himself.

So Harry gets up and exits the room.

***

Once outside, Harry doesn’t go back to the party. Louis isn’t there.

Instead, he gets in the nearest lift and pushes the button to the top floor. He follows the corridor he steps into to its end and opens a door that leads him to a flight of stairs. His heart is beating fast, faster than it ought to be, maybe, but Harry revels in it. He’s here, and he’s alive, and they _won_.

He opens another door and steps out onto the rooftop of the hotel. Louis is sitting in the middle of it, his back turned to Harry. Harry’s steps falter and he stops, while he takes Louis in. His stance is carefree, bearing a lightness that shouldn’t be visible yet is obvious to Harry’s eyes, used to deciphering every nuance of Louis’ body language, of his expressions. Harry can’t see Louis’ face but he imagines it to be peaceful, the ever-present frown he had started to wear erased from it.

Then, Louis turns around and his face lights up when he spots Harry.

“Hello,” he smiles, eyes crinkling. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Harry smiles in return.


	8. Epilogue.

Epilogue.

« Let me tell you a story about love. »

Richard Siken, “War of the foxes”, in  _War of the foxes_.

_Here’s a secret about stories. In the end, you never tell the one you thought you would._

_The story escapes you, that’s the truth. It’s no more yours than it is those you gave it to. The words you use – they’re never quite right. They never quite convey what you wanted to say, they never quite lie in the way you wanted them to._

_Let’s take an example._

_You say – I went to war. (Question: did you really?)_

_You say – I was a spy. (Question:  what did you learn about yourself?)_

_Counterexample._

_You’re standing in a hotel room and the man you’re in love with is ready to shatter if you say one wrong word. You’re not blind, nor are you stupid. You can see what this is doing to him. How he bends and how he bends under the weight of his love for you. You don’t know how to fix it but god, you want to._

_You have one shot at fixing things. You need to do what’s right._

_This is the moment where you admit failure._

_You say – I don’t have enough words. You say – I love you isn’t enough._

_Problem: how do you talk about love, if the word love isn’t enough?_

_This isn’t working. Let’s try something else._

_You’re ten. Your mother is crying at the kitchen table and it shatters something within you you didn’t even know existed before this very moment. Something like the belief that she was more than human, more than you. That she was unbreakable. Yet here she is, crying, and she’s fragile and, more than that, you now understand that she’s fragile. You also know, in the way you know universal truths, that there’s nothing you can do to make it better. She looks up and sees you and smiles at you, one hand trying to dry her tears. She says,_ hi baby _, and you smile back. This is when you learn about loneliness. Not yours, but hers._

 _You’re twenty-three. You stop in front of a poster and think,_ maybe I should go to war _. But we’ve already talked about this one, let’s move further on._

_You’re twenty-eight and that, in itself, is a surprise. You’ve never imagined living this long. You’ve always thought that it would have to stop, somewhere, at some point. But it didn’t and here you are, sitting next to the man you love, in a too big conference room. The man you love isn’t bending under the weight of his love for you yet but it’s already there, in the quiet acceptance of the fire that has been lit inside you. It only took a few words for it to burn bright and you wonder if there’s some kind of weakness in you that others can sense and see, something that makes you oh so vulnerable to them._

_In front of you, two men – that’s the scene – offering you something you hadn’t even acknowledged you wanted until one of them spoke the words –_

_(and then the fire, the fire inside you and around you, engulfing you and even though you don’t say yes immediately, you know you won’t say no)_

***

**_Spring – One-year anniversary of the end of the war_ **

“Let it not be said that we weren’t better than those we overthrew.” Irving’s words echo in the vastness of a conference room that wasn’t built to contain four people only, and in Louis’ chest.

Louis gets up from his seat, a bit dizzy, and takes a few steps into the room in order to gather his thoughts. The door leading to the corridor is ajar and he closes it before turning round and facing the two strangers who are looking at him, expressions expectant. A thrill starts spreading through his body, something physical that makes his fingers tingle, his head swim. He quenches it, trying to look at the situation in an objective way.

“So,” he says out loud, firm and without any trace of hesitation. “To sum up, you want us to accept Winston’s offer.”

“Yes,” Irving nods.

“Because,” and Louis phrases it in the most direct, unequivocal way he can, as to make sure that there is no possible confusion as to what they’re being asked to do, “you want us to spy on the Government. For you.”

“Exactly.” Irving looks pleased. Jeff’s face, in contrast, isn’t letting anything show.

“And if we refuse?” Louis asks.

“That’s your choice,” Jeff replies.

“We won’t make any threats if that’s what you’re implying,” Irving adds in an amused voice. “I think you’ve already had to deal with enough of those for tonight.” He sighs but it’s more thoughtful than put upon. “Think about it, yes? I’m asking this of you because I think that we need you here. You can let us know of your decision when you’ve made it.” 

Harry, who had until then stayed silent, assessing the situation in this quiet way he always has, says,

“When do you need an answer?”

“Well, the faster the better, of course.” Irving frowns, hesitating before seemingly reaching a decision. “Things are going to, ah, accelerate. The Government has been busy with the preparations and the organization of the Anniversary, but now that it’s almost over, they’re going to start focusing on the campaign. And by focusing, I mean that they’re going to try their hardest to secure their rich base of supporters, and use the money it gives them to try and influence the voters by any means possible.” He laughs harshly. “They’ve already started. They’re trying to recruit you.”

“We’re not rich,” Harry points out.

“No,” Jeff agrees, and there’s something almost remarkable in the way they are able to carry the conversation together, father and son, like the most perfectly choreographed dance routine. “But you have influence. For you, the war ended years ago. For the people… It’s still very much on their mind. And they’re doing what people do when they come out of a long period of instability and trauma. They’re trying to find heroes. People to look up to. You could be that for them and the Government knows it.” He stops and Louis takes advantage of the lull in conversation to go back to his seat, letting one hand brush Harry’s back in reassurance, a wordless promise that they’ll talk about it together later.

“So,” Jeff says, the faintest hint of a challenge in his tone, “I guess the real question is, what kind of hero do you want to be?”

***

**_Winter – New Elections’ Day_ **

Louis takes a few steps towards Harry and their knuckles brush, an almost imperceptible gesture to someone who wouldn’t be looking for it. Louis doesn’t think anyone in the room is and, truly, there’s no need to be secretive except for wanting to keep this – the reassurance – between the two of them. They haven’t been here for long, half an hour maybe, but the room is already crowded with people bristling with hope and excitement and there’s something in the air that feels like exhilaration, like victory. It’s kind of suffocating.

“I think I need some fresh air,” Louis whispers to Harry.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, I’ll be fine. And I think it’s better if one of us stays here.”

Harry nods and turns back to smile at the person he was talking to before Louis interrupted. He’s gotten better at this, not that he was ever bad at it, there had always been something about him that made people feel like they were the most important person in the room when he looked at them, but it’s more _focused_ now. Purposeful, maybe. Or less genuine, depending on how you look at it.

Louis makes his way across the room, toward the entrance door, as swiftly as he can. He steps out in a corridor and goes through several empty rooms until he reaches a backdoor. It reminds him of a similar walk he had done with Zayn, last spring, except that there’s no surprise at the sudden rush of noise that greets him when he gets out of the building, this time. He has long since become accustomed to it. Has learned to know this new city.

The sky is grey and cloudy, as it was in the early morning, when Louis and Harry had made their walk back to the flat, exhausted after a night spent roaming the streets of the city.  They had made love slowly, the dusty light of dawn illuminating their bedroom, and, in truth, it had been more about being close to each other, holding each other tight, than anything else. Then Louis had slept, for a while, and had woken up to Harry crouched on the floor in front of their two opened suitcases. At Louis’ confused face he had shrugged and said,

“Better pack now. In case, you know…”

Louis knew. They needed to be prepared to run.

“Care to give me one?” a familiar voice asks, interrupting Louis’ recollection. Louis glances at the cigarette in his hand and then up, at Niall’s questioning face.

“Sure,” he answers and proceeds to do so, ignoring the voice in his mind whispering that it used to be Zayn, in Niall’s place.

They smoke in silence. One day, maybe not so far from today, they will sit down with Niall, him and Harry. Maybe they’ll stick to beer, maybe they’ll bring out the whiskey like they used to when they lived together at the Factory, and they’ll share anecdotes about the time they were spies. Louis has a lot of anecdotes in his store, some funny and some not. There’s a feeling of peace that comes with the thought that this is something he can envision now, that he’s allowed to. A future with no lies.

“You didn’t come here just for a smoke, did you?” Louis asks when they’re both finished.

“No,” Niall smiles, albeit sadly. “Irving wants to talk to you.”

“Ah.” It’s not unheard of but it’s still something of a surprise that it should be him and not Harry. “Do you know what it’s about?”

“Simon, I think.”

Or maybe not so surprising.

“Okay.” 

They make their way back to the reunion room in silence, separating when they reach it. Niall goes back to, well, whatever it is he’s doing and Louis approaches the small group surrounding Irving. He’s clutching a bunch of papers in one hand, the other holding a still full flute of champagne. When he spots Louis he smiles and says, in a voice loud enough that Louis can hear every word,

“If you’ll excuse me. I need to have a word with Mr Tomlinson here.”

Louis can’t see those people’s faces but it’s not hard to imagine them, the expression of surprise they must be bearing, their hidden distaste. He stays standing where he is, waiting for Irving to come near him.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes,” Irving says, voice low – almost a whisper. “We’ve just gotten the first estimated results. It would appear that we’re winning.” Before Louis has time to reply anything, to feel anything, he continues, “I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve heard from some of my sources that Simon is going to try and leave the country, which isn’t unsurprising and would be smart of him. Louis,” he says and there’s something in his tone that reminds Louis of their very first meeting, a solemnity, a quiet heaviness, “we can’t allow it. Those people, they need to be judged.”

Louis nods. He’s been doing this for long enough that he understands what Irving isn’t quite saying. The Government needs to be held accountable for what it did but, more than that, the people needs to see it being held accountable. Someone needs to be the villain.

“What about the other ones?” he asks. “Aren’t they going to run away too?”

“I have people taking care of them,” Irving answers. “But they’re not as important as Simon. You know how it goes, Louis. If you arrest the figurehead, the rest will follow.”

Louis takes a few seconds to gather his thoughts but, in truth, there’s no question as to whether he’s going to agree or not.

“What do I have to do?” 

“There’s a car waiting for you outside. The driver has been briefed. It’ll take you to the private airport. If you go now, you’ll probably be able to arrive there before Simon himself. I’m counting on the fact that there are a few things he still needs to do before he can leave. You’ll have reinforcements,” he adds. “I’ve selected some of my men to go with you. They should already be on their way.”

“Can I bring someone with me?” Louis asks. “I would like… I would like not to be alone, if that’s all right.” Irving’s personal police don’t count.

“You can,” Irving replies, “but it can’t be Harry,” he adds, anticipating Louis’ next request. “I need one of you here,” he says as if it explains everything and, although Louis doesn’t like it, he can acknowledge it makes sense.

“Liam?” Louis suggests. He hasn’t had much time to think this through but he can guess that Niall is also off limits and now isn’t the right time for a tearful reunion with Zayn.

“Mr Payne would be a rather clever idea,” Irving says, not privy to Louis’ thoughts. There’s a shadow of admiration in the gaze he levels at Louis that almost makes him blurt out that there’s no real strategy behind his choice, because he knows the conclusions Irving is drawing and they’re _wrong_. Louis didn’t choose Liam because he wants to make the last remaining member of their little group into an unequivocal ally of their side. He doesn’t say anything out loud.

“You should go now,” Irving resumes. “I’ll let Harry know that you had to leave.”

“Right,” Louis says. “Just one last thing?”

“Yes?”

“Why me?”

There’s a kindness, in Irving’s eyes, that almost makes Louis avert his gaze. “Maybe,” he answers, “I feel like I owe it to you.”

It’s not the end of this conversation but Louis leaves it at that for now. He has a task he needs to accomplish.

“Good luck,” Irving says in farewell and Louis exits the room.

***

There’s a car waiting outside, black and sleek, just as Irving had said there would be. The door opens and Louis slides into his seat, taking his phone out. He sends a quick text to Harry, just in case, before searching for Liam’s number.

“We’re probably going to have to make a small detour,” Louis says to the driver, bending forward. The driver catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror.

“As you wish sir. Should I wait for you to make the call first?” he asks, nodding in direction of Louis’ phone.

“No, it’s fine.” Or, well. Louis hopes it’ll be fine. He doesn’t want to do this alone. “In fact, I’ll give you the address right now.”

“All right sir.”

When he has, Louis slouches back in his seat and looks back down at his phone, his finger still hovering over Liam’s name. He doesn’t hesitate before pressing the call button.

***

“So,” Liam starts. “We’re going to arrest Simon.”

“Well, um. To be fair, I think Irving’s men will be doing the arresting part. We are here to supervise, mostly.”

“Because,” and Liam’s tone is caught somewhere between incredulous and, yes, a bit angry, “you’ve spent the past six months working for the Azoffs. As spies.”

“Yes,” Louis answers succinctly. He doesn’t dare add more.

“And I had no fucking clue,” Liam concludes with a small deprecating laugh.

At that, Louis glances up to look at him, but Liam’s gaze is trained on the scenery, outside the window. They’re reaching the outskirts of the city and it’s mostly abandoned buildings that haven’t been reclaimed yet, and maybe never will be. It doesn’t take much to understand that he can’t bring himself to look back at Louis.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Louis offers, a feeble attempt at an apology. “Have a clue, I mean.”

“Does Niall know?” Liam asks instead of replying to Louis’ declaration.

“He does,” Louis admits before hurrying to add, “apparently he’s been working with the Azoffs too. We had no idea until a few weeks ago.”

Liam tears his gaze away from the window to stare at Louis. “So what? You were all busy saving the country while I was worrying myself to death thinking that I was losing you?”

“Is that what you were thinking?” Louis asks.

“Does it matter?” Liam snorts. Something must show, on Louis’ face, a hurt he knows he isn’t allowed to feel yet does because Liam relents and adds, “What you were doing didn’t make much sense to me. Especially not with how reluctant you were to trust Simon or give him any kind of power over you when we were at the Factory. But I gathered that you had your reasons and that was good enough for me, I guess.”

They both leave it unspoken that it wasn’t good enough for Zayn. Not that Louis blames him anymore. He hasn’t for a long time.

“You sort of suck at choosing the easiest path, don’t you?” Liam says and Louis barks out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I guess we do.”

“Sir?” the driver interrupts. “We’re almost there.”

“Do you see any other cars?”

“No sir. Just...ah... Mr Azoff’s men, I think.”

“You can leave us here,” Louis says. “We’ll walk the rest.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Make sure that you find a hiding place while waiting for us,” Louis adds. “It wouldn’t do for you to alert Simon of our presence.”

“Of course sir.”

A rush of wind greets them when they get out of the car and set foot on the almost deserted tarmac. Louis recognizes it, and the private plane standing in front of them in the distance. This is where they came to take the jet to Washington. Irving couldn’t have chosen a worse place for an ambush – not that he had a choice. The place is bare, with nowhere to hide, or so it seems. Louis and Liam begin walking toward the group of people standing in front of the plane. Instinctively, as they get closer to each other, their senses are alert, ready to turn around and fight at the mere indication of a noise.

It’s an odd thing, thinking that you have forgotten something only to discover that it’s been there, within you, all this time, ready to resurface at the first opportunity. That’s how it’s like now, the remnants of the old military training Louis had gone through all those years ago kicking in and overwhelming every other instinct. A brief shared glance with Liam is enough to tell him that Liam is feeling it too but he tries to quench the exhilaration that starts building in his chest to concentrate on what they came here to do.

“Sir,” a member of the group says, coming to meet them before they reach the plane. “Your identity, please?”

“Mr Tomlinson,” Louis says, producing his driver license, “and this is Mr Payne. He’s with me.”

He receives a nod in return. “You can call me Charlie. Here’s my identification.” Charlie holds out a card and Louis skims through it before giving it back. “We’ve been waiting for you. If you’ll follow me?”

There’s not many places where they could go but still, they follow Charlie until they reach the rest of the group. They are all wearing nondescript clothes and almost no one would be able to tell, from the look of them, that they are trained individuals, able to incapacitate people in a dozen different ways. Louis can, though. It’s in the way they hold themselves, the almost rigid set of their shoulders. There’s some reassurance to be found in their presence, stemming not from the military back-up they offer but from the knowledge that this is as official as any arrest could ever be in the present circumstances. No more games. No more lying. 

“Which one of you should I report to?” Charlie, who must be the leader, asks. Louis hesitates on how to answer when he senses Liam take a small, yet obvious, step back, leaving him to face Charlie alone. “Right,” Charlie acknowledges. “There’s not much to tell. We arrived half an hour ago. No sign of Mr Cowell since, we’ve only been waiting for you.”

“And the crew?” Louis asks, nodding toward the plane.

“Incapacitated,” Charlie answers. “We didn’t do them any lasting harm, of course.”

“Any idea of when Mr Cowell should arrive?”

“Within the next hour, according to the last reports.”

“All right,” Louis says, turning toward Liam. “Time to plan, then.” For the briefest of moments, Louis could swear that they’re not standing on a windy tarmac anymore, with nothing but fields surrounding them, but that they are back in the Brooklyn penthouse, the noises of the TV a soft lull in the background as they spread maps over the dining table and start searching for new targets to blow up. Then, as quickly as it came, the vision evaporates.

“Louis?” Liam is asking. “Are you all right?”

“Sure, why?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “Tell me again?”

“I was saying, how do you want to do this?”

Louis looks around once again, considering the emptiness of their surroundings. _Maybe I feel like I owe you something_ , Irving had said. While Louis appreciates the sentiment, this looks more like a test than an attempt at seeking forgiveness. He rolls the sleeves of his suit jacket up to his elbows before doing the same operation with his shirt, thinking that he’s definitely not wearing the appropriate clothes for this. Still, the motions give him some time to assess the situation.

“The crew,” he says, directing his voice at Charlie. “How many of them were there?”

“Three, sir.”

“Right. Try to see if you can find three of your people who have similar builds and see that they put on the crew’s jackets. It should be enough to give the illusion that they’re a part of it. We’ll have them wait to arrest Simon, I mean _Mr Cowell_ , outside of the plane and we’ll be waiting inside in case something goes wrong. Does that seem okay with you?” He directs the question at both Liam and Charlie, this time.

“Fine with me,” Liam answers. “It’s not like we have much to go on with.”

Charlie nods in response, the easy obedience of someone used to following orders.

“Well,” Louis sighs. “On to work, then.” 

***

The waiting probably doesn’t last very long. Still, it seems like an eternity.

Liam and Louis are seated in front of each other, away from Irving’s crew. It’s a strange thing, to wait in the plane Louis had taken to go to Washington, knowing that it won’t fly anywhere, this time. Back then, he had been preoccupied with his Speech, with thousands of questions swirling in his mind, relentless, never leaving him in peace. His thoughts had been plagued by pictures of Harry taken outside of a restaurant, at night, dark circles under his eyes that seemed more prominent when illuminated by the unforgiving lights of professional flashes, his mouth set in a harsh line. They hadn’t discussed those pictures, then, because there was nothing to discuss, nothing they could say to each other that would somewhat make it all better. They had acknowledged that they existed and moved on.  

 

“So,” Liam asks in an attempt at a distraction, “what is it you did during the past six months?”

Louis shrugs and tries schooling his features in a blank expression. “I, ah, worked with the Government a lot. Helped with the campaign, wrote a few speeches. Um, tried gathering information on all those people. Irving thinks that they should be judged, you know?”

“No,” Liam shakes his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “But I could have gathered that from what we’re doing here. Louis…”

“Yes?”

“What is it?”

The directness of the question is what breaks Louis’ resolve. Harry knows, of course he does, but they’ve never been able to speak about it plainly, always too mindful of who might be hearing them when they were outside and when they weren’t… Well, they tried to leave it aside during the few hours they had to themselves. So maybe Louis wants to talk about it. He’s just not sure how.

“Do you remember how hard it was for Zayn to come back to the country, last spring?”

“Yes. Of course I do.”

“The, uh. The society they wanted to build.  You wouldn’t have wanted to be a part of it. None of us would have. But I had to be, for a little while. It was my job.”

Liam nods, encouraging Louis to go on.

“I didn’t like it,” is all Louis can bring himself to say.

“Hey Lou, it’s fine,” Liam reassures him. “What about Harry, then. What did he do?”

Which is a good question.

(There’s one morning in particular that comes to Louis’ mind.

He’s just spent the night working on his Speech for the Factory memorial inauguration, weighing every word, in his mind first and then out loud, to see how they resonate in the empty library, to imagine how they would sound in front of a hundred people. It’s not just the words, though, that count when it comes to writing a speech. It’s also the silences he knows he’ll have to leave in between sentences, the pauses. He needs to distract himself from it, to think about something else for a while, so here he is, on the terrace, looking at the sun rising. It’s starting to get chilly now and he’s bundled under a blanket, knees pressed against his chest. He’s still cold but, then again, he’s always been sensitive to the cold.

The door is opened, then closed.

“Did you get any sleep?” It’s something of a useless question, but Louis knows why Harry is asking it. A semblance of normalcy is sometimes the only thing you can hang onto in order to prevent yourself from feeling like you’re going mad.

“I’ll sleep later,” Louis replies. “They don’t need me before the afternoon.”

“Okay.” An acknowledgement of Louis’ small concession.

“Come here?” Louis offers, unbending his legs and shifting so that he’s not clogging the entirety of the reclining chair anymore. So Harry does, footsteps light on the floor, before lying down next to Louis. Louis opens his arms and it’s apparently all Harry was waiting for because he settles in between them without wasting any time, pressing his face against Louis’ chest and entangling their legs.

“What were you doing then?” Harry asks, voice muffled. “If you weren’t sleeping?”

“Just trying to clear my mind of things.”

“By freezing to death?” Harry’s tone is amused, playful.

“It’s not that bad,” Louis laughs, although it’s kind of a lie. “Not anymore, at least.” He lifts one hand to play with Harry’s hair, tugging gently at the curls under his fingers. Harry lets out a contented sigh and Louis wouldn’t be able to tell if the gesture is more soothing for him or for Harry. “I used to do that, when I was still living at home.”

“Do what?”

“Not sleeping. Not all the time, but sometimes.”  The words come out of his mouth slowly yet without hesitation. “There’s a moment, when you don’t sleep, always a moment when it feels like the world belongs to you and no one else. When it feels like if you force yourself to keep your eyes open, for a little longer, maybe it’ll stay like this forever. Like it’s yours and you’ll never have to give it back to others. I don’t like not sleeping,” he sighs, “but I like this moment.”

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “I think I know what you mean.”

They stay like this, for a while, Harry in Louis’ arms, until Louis’ limbs start getting heavy with sleep and he can’t find the strength to keep his eyes open.

“You should go to bed,” Harry whispers.

“I know.”

But Louis doesn’t want the moment to end. Because this is how it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be the two of them, against whatever wanted to tear the country apart. Louis had never thought that, in the process, it would also try to tear them apart. It wasn’t supposed to be him alone being summoned every morning and going away while their situation ate away at Harry. Louis isn’t an idiot. He knows. And he’s powerless.

Harry lifts his head up from Louis’ chest and presses a warm kiss against the corner of Louis’ jaw.

“Come on,” it’s Harry’s turn to say, “I’ll come with you.”

_What did Harry do?_

_Harry loved me._ )

“It’s fine,” Liam offers after a moment, taking Louis’ silence for a refusal to answer. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No!” Louis exclaims. “It’s just hard. To explain.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” It’s not supposed to come out as harsh as it does and Louis would apologize but Liam just shrugs.

“When we came back from our mission, from war, all those years ago, my family kept asking me questions, you know?” Louis does. “And like, I didn’t know what to tell them. It’s not even that I didn’t want to speak, it’s that there was this… This distance, between me and them and I couldn’t close it. Every time I tried words just weren’t enough. So, after a while, I stopped trying.”

And here is another odd thing. To think you know someone so well, only to discover the tiniest bit of information about them that completely changes your perception of them. In Louis’ mind, from the very first moment they met, Liam has always been this bright, unshakable force, something solid and unwavering. He had resented it, at times, had been jealous of it, almost greedy in his envy to be more like him – less breakable, less vulnerable to every little thing that hurts. Maybe he’s got it all wrong, though.

“You didn’t feel like a hero?” Louis asks.

“A hero?” Liam laughs. “No, I didn’t feel like a hero. I didn’t feel like anything. I didn’t even feel like myself.”

“Some people won’t understand what we did,” Louis says, lowering his gaze at his hands. They’re shaking a bit. “Or they will, but they won’t deem it worthy.”

“Louis… Zayn will come around. I’ll talk to him.” When Louis doesn’t answer because he couldn’t possibly utter a single word, Liam adds, “What you did was hurtful, I won’t lie. But it was also very brave.”

That’s when they hear a commotion outside. Louis closes his eyes. The noise, contrary to the wait, only seems to last for a few seconds. Then, silence. Louis opens his eyes to find Liam looking at him questioningly.

“Well,” Louis says. “Let’s go and see.”

***

“You did a good job,” Irving congratulates him, closing the door of the room they put Simon in behind him. “As I knew you would.”

“Ah. So it _was_ a test?” Louis enquires. He keeps his eyes trained on Liam walking next to Jeff in front of him. He’s not sure he could handle seeing the expression Irving’s face must be bearing.

“I guess it would depend on what you call a test.” Then, as if to deny what he’s just said, “I don’t suppose I could convince you to come work for our Government?” There’s a hint of playfulness in his tone now.

“We have to go back to London.”

“Do you?”

“There are people waiting for us there. We have to go back,” he repeats. “At least for a little while.”

“We _will_ need you for the Trials,” Irving replies. “You know that, right?”

And here is that word again. Need. Louis isn’t someone who can be easily swayed or won over, but Irving knows that and he’s cleverer than that. With one simple word he had managed to secure Louis’ – and Harry’s – allegiance back in the spring, and now that they’re almost free of it he’s doing it again. Knowing what’s happening and how doesn’t prevent Louis from answering,

“Yeah, I do.”

It’s not a concession, more of an acknowledgement of something they are both aware they can’t leave unspoken, not when Louis has just said he and Harry were planning on leaving the country. That doesn’t mean he can let this conversation go on further.

“I don’t think I’ve congratulated you on your victory, have I? Congratulations.”

Irving’s steps falter, then stop. “Thank you. Although I’d like to think it’s your victory too.”

“Are you happy about it?” It’s something of a harsh question.

“It’s what we wanted,” Irving answers, which isn’t the same thing at all.

“Other people would just have answered that they were happy.”

“Well then. I think we’re both glad I’m not them, aren’t we?”

Louis nods, resting his back against the wall. The corridor they’re in is dark, the sole source of light coming from under a door at the very end of it. Laughs are also escaping from it and that must be where the celebration party is taking place. Where Liam and Jeff disappeared. Where Harry is.

“If you know them so well,” Louis starts, each word deliberate, “maybe you can answer this question for me. Why would someone who has the most beautiful story in the world at their disposal, let’s say, a story about two people falling in love during the hardest time of their lives, waste it away completely? Why would they try to create a divide between those two people, instead of using their combined strength?”

Irving tilts his head, a careful show of giving Louis’ questions the consideration they deserve. “To be able to wield such a story,” he says, “one would first have to believe in it, at least a little.”

“Ah.”

“You know that we didn’t start it, right? The separation between you and Harry. We just ran along with it.”  

“I’m not sure that’s better. But, at least, I can understand it.”

“Louis…”

“It’s fine,” Louis interrupts him. “I think you should go inside,” he adds, gesturing in direction of the door. “They must be waiting for you.”

“Will you come?”

“In a few minutes.”

Irving leaves it at that, and Louis watches his back disappearing into the shadows. _To believe in it_. Is it as simple as this? Have they just been facing people who didn’t believe in them? It seems absurd, almost pointless in the face of what it had done to them both but, then again, Louis has seen a lot of pointless cruelty. He sighs and adjusts his suit jacket, trying to give the impression that he hasn’t spent the past few hours arresting someone. When the fabric is as smooth as it’s ever going to get, Louis detaches himself from the wall and starts walking toward the party.

He lets himself inside and positions himself next to Liam. There’s a stage, on the other side of the room, with Irving on it, Jeff and – Harry. Louis’ breath catches. Then, he smiles at Harry.

The glance they share can only mean one thing.

_We won. It’s over._

***

The roof is windy when Louis opens the door and steps outside. He considers going back in, finding another place to wait for Harry, but no. This is where he wants to be. With an unrestricted view of the city where they fought twice. He settles somewhere in the middle of it, sitting down on the hard floor, legs crossed at his ankles. He sends a quick text to Harry, telling him to come up once he’s done speaking with Simon. Or, at least, that’s what Jeff told him.

Louis couldn’t tell how long he waits for Harry, unmoving, exposed to the wind and the cold. Whatever Harry feels like he needs to tell Simon – or whatever he thinks he needs to listen to - it mustn’t take long but, when the sound of a door opening travels to him, when the noise of light footsteps starts getting closer to him, the relief coursing through his body makes it feel like he has been waiting for hours – an eternity.   He turns around to smile at Harry who smiles back at him and Louis notices some signs of the same relief in Harry.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says in greeting, and he has.

He’s been waiting for _this_ Harry, the one who doesn’t have lines of worry etched across his face, the one whose jaw isn’t clenched permanently, whose smile dimples.

“I’m here,” Harry laughs, but there’s something definitive in his tone that conveys it was never really a question, just a matter of time. He sits down next to Louis, mimicking Louis’ position and their knees brush.  Louis could drown in the intimacy of such a simple gesture.

“How was it?” Louis asks.

“Instructive,” Harry replies, thoughtful. He doesn’t say more and, right. He must need some time to process whatever happened between him and Simon. “I like the view,” he says in a light-hearted voice.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “Me too.”

It’s not the middle of the night, barely dusk, but here, all alone with Harry, it does feel like the world belongs to them and them only anyway.

“It was a random observation, wasn’t it?” Harry says. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure how to feel.”

“Don’t you feel happy?”

“I do,” Harry answers. He adds, “It feels foreign. Like I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it.”

“You should enjoy it, I think.”

Harry doesn’t answer and Louis accepts his silence for what it is. They’ve been through this before, a mission ending and them being left alone, unsure of what would happen next. Except, things are so different this time that any attempt at a comparison seems feeble, almost useless. They’re not leaving behind them a country still at war while trying to come to terms with everything that’s happened to them. They’re not left in the dark trying to hold on to the smallest thing that would help them breathe again. They’re still here, the promises of things to come drawing the shaky path of what their future could be, if they want it badly enough. They just have to make sure that they’re on the same page.

“So,” Harry asks in a small voice. “What are we gonna do now?”

His ability to echo Louis’ thoughts shouldn’t be surprising yet, it still is. Louis takes some time to consider how to answer, before deciding to start with the obvious. “We need to go back to London. Your mother misses you and I… I need to see if mum and the girls are okay.”

“And after that?”

So Harry knows it too. That they can’t go back to what they were doing before. 

“There will be the Trials,” Louis says, but it sounds like an excuse. Like a way to avoid making the decision they need to make now. So he gathers his courage and continues, “We don’t have to… We don’t have to move back to London permanently. We could stay for a while and then come back. For the Trials but also because we want to. Because there are things we can only do here. If all goes well the Brooklyn flat should soon be available again, shouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Harry says, and he’s not just answering Louis’ last question. “Now that the New Elections are over Lily and the kids should be able to move back into the house.”

“So maybe that’s something we could do. If you want to.”

It’s a huge decision, one that’s more than just where they want to live. It’s about asking this one, unequivocal question. How do we want to live?

London is a life built upon the remnants of their first time together in New York, a life where Louis gives lectures about war, where Harry exposes pictures like opened wounds. A life where, even though the city bears no traces of their fight, it’s everywhere, in the very air they inhale, they exhale. New York is being surrounded by constant reminders of what had happened, abandoned buildings at every corner of every street, entire sections of the subway still closed, and Louis knows why, he was there, he’s in part responsible for it. New York, in a lot of ways, is easier.

So, maybe they need both. If there’s one thing their years spent in London has taught them, it’s that no matter the distance you put between you and the things that broke you it doesn’t make them go away. It barely even makes them fade from your memory. They had chosen London, all those years ago, thinking that it meant choosing peace when New York was war. But now there’s a middle path, a third possibility. One that isn’t peace or war.

“I’m not sure what I want,” Harry answers. “I’m not sure about anything. Not even if I want to take pictures anymore. Like, I haven’t taken any in a long time anyway. What we went through. It wasn’t quite war but it wasn’t… It wasn’t not war either, you know?” Louis does. “What I know is that I’m in love with you.”

“That’s, ah. That’s a good thing,” Louis laughs, a faint sound.

“It is, isn’t it?” Harry smiles, one hand coming to rest on Louis’ knee and Louis welcomes the physical contact.  “Do you think that maybe… Maybe we can start over? Is it too late for that?”

“Maybe,” Louis agrees. “In a way, it feels like…”

“Yes?”

“Like we’re beyond our time.”

A middle path. Maybe Harry is right and it would be more accurate to think of it as a new beginning. 

“So we should do that then,” Harry says in a decisive tone. “Start over. Not let ourselves be defined by it, this time.”

“We didn’t do it wrong the first time,” Louis points out, because it needs to be said.

“No,” Harry agrees. “But we can do it better this time. We know better.”

“All right.” Then, “I still need to finish my story, though.”

At that Harry lets out a laugh. It’s small but sincere, filled with joy and happiness. Louis is helpless against it and leans toward Harry, capturing his lips with his. The kiss is tender, Harry’s mouth opened and pliant under his, as if to say ‘you can take this, you can take whatever you want’. There’s nothing Louis wants to take, though. What he wants is for this to go on forever, Harry’s hair soft under his fingers, Harry’s chest warm and firm against his, Harry’s legs solid and anchoring between his. And, suddenly, Louis is choking tears that seem to be coming from nowhere and everywhere within him at once. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Harry’s, the most soothing gesture he can think of. One of Harry’s hands comes up to cup his chin and Louis lets himself be engulfed by the sense of security and belonging it brings him.

“I love you,” he whispers. His voice almost doesn’t waver.

“I love you too.” A light kiss pressed against his temple, and it’s too much.

Louis opens his eyes to find Harry staring at him, eyes bright and green, both familiar and still surprising. His expression is painfully earnest when he says, 

“You should. Finish your story, I mean. I think it’s a good thing that people will have another version of the story. Not the one told by the memorials and the ruins. The official version of events. Not history. Our story.”

“Thank you,” Louis says. “It’s an arrogant thing, though, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Writing a story. Hoping that someone, somewhere, will understand perfectly what you meant with it and that they will know you.” A pause. “That they will know us.”

“Maybe it is,” Harry acknowledges. “But I don’t think it matters as long as there are people who want to read them and believe in them.”

Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after tomorrow, Louis will tell Harry of his conversation with Irving (and Harry will tell him of his conversation with Simon). Louis will repeat to him the words Irving said, _to be able to wield such a story one would first have to believe in it_. He’ll ask him, _how do I make people believe in us?_ And maybe Harry won’t know what to say, but Harry’s unwavering faith in him, in his ability to do it, will be enough of an answer. Now is not the time, though. 

They’ve moved, while they were talking, and Harry’s side is pressed against his, their hands clasped together, resting on Louis’ knee. Louis averts his gaze to look at their entangled fingers. This is the closest he’s ever been to feeling at peace.

“The thing is,” Louis says, voice quiet, “sometimes, you start writing a story and you think you know what it’s about. But you don’t. It takes you actually writing the story to understand what you’re trying to say with it.” He looks back up at Harry again. He’s sitting very still, next to Louis, staring at the horizon, at the cityscape laid offered to their hungry gazes, a city that’s theirs yet not completely theirs. He has tied his hair into a bun at some point, and it makes his jaw look more defined, his whole demeanour more determined. If Louis hadn’t already professed to him all the love declarations he could think of, hadn’t already laid himself bare, open and wounded at his feet, this would be the moment he would do it, without any hesitation. Instead he goes on, “I thought I was writing a story about war. But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“Really?” Harry answers in the same low tones, as if one word louder than the other could somehow shatter the sense of peace sheltering them. His grip on Louis’ hand gets a bit stronger. “What is it about then?”

Louis smiles. “Love. It’s a story about love.”

*** 

_So this is your ending and it’s a fitting one, if you may say so yourself. Two men (in love, always so in love) sitting on a rooftop overlooking a healing city. A beautiful picture, truly._

_This is your ending and you bow and you wait for the crowd’s applause. It never comes. When you open your eyes, it’s to find that the crowd has already scattered and you’re all alone with your ending stuck somewhere inside your clenched fists._

_Well._

_You don’t blame those people but neither do you agree with them._

_Two men in love is all you have to offer, and if it’s not enough of a happy ending there’s nothing you can do._

_Here’s a secret about stories. In the end, you only ever write them because you need to believe in them too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Let it not be said that we weren’t better than those we overthrew” may come from a loosely translated sentence of Danton’s speech at the end of the (glorious) six hours long movie about the French Revolution. It’s in two parts: part 1 is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SP4iii_THQ) and [part 2 here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-6ruyZFfZs). There’s even English subtitles!! If you don’t want to watch the six (still glorious) hours of this masterpiece you can just watch Danton’s speech. It’s in part 2 and starts around 1.57.10
> 
> If you enjoyed this story here is the [tumblr post :)](http://elianefics.tumblr.com/post/152079942861/an-act-of-faith-against-the-night-sequel-to-a).


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